


The Hazardous Tale of the Wolf in the Orchard

by thistledome



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Torture, M/M, Magic, Magic!Kate, NaNoWriMo, POV Alternating, Romance, The Hazards of Love AU, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistledome/pseuds/thistledome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after Queen Victoria's murder, Stiles finds himself indebted to a werewolf living in the forest outside of his town. But werewolves have been banned from the kingdom of December for years, and this one does not seem to know that Victoria is dead, or even who the royal family are.</p>
<p>When the King and his daughter come to town with the King's crazy sister, Kate, Stiles is dragged into the middle of a war he did not know was raging between two old families. As the secrets about the royal family slowly unfold, Stiles finds himself more and more drawn to the werewolf in the forest, until fate has laid all its cards on the table and lives are on the line.</p>
<p>Based on the Decemberists' concept album The Hazards of Love. Consider yourself warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hazardous Tale of the Wolf in the Orchard

**Author's Note:**

> OH GOD THIS STORY.
> 
> So, for NaNoWriMo last year I decided it would be a good idea to write a Teen Wolf AU based on the Decemberist's concept album The Hazards of Love. And it was fun - buuut it didn't go anywhere. At least, not until recently, when my glorious cheerleader Heather somehow convinved me over Facebook chat to tell her a story, and for some reason I thought recapping what would have been the Hazards AU was a good idea. A week and a half and forty thousand words later, I was a shaking mess with a monster story.
> 
> ...You're welcome?
> 
> Many, many thanks go to my darling Heather, who always puts up with my whining and procrastination and hopeless flailing. I don't know how I managed this mess, but you're a big part of it, my dear, and for that I am endlessly grateful.
> 
> You don't need to know the story of The Hazards of Love to follow this one. However, if you would like a recap of the original, [the Wikipedia article](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hazards_of_Love) does a good enough job explaining. Alternatively, go and listen to the album, because it is amazing, and my rabid fangirling will never do it justice.
> 
> Extended warnings in the end notes.
> 
> **Edit:** GORGEOUS GORGEOUS [Bae](http://banryeo.tumblr.com/) made gorgeous gorgeous art of Kate for me. Spoilers for the story climax, but [looooooook it's so gorgeous ugh]().

Once upon a time there was a great and terrible King who ruled over his lands with an iron fist and a cold, dead heart. He was said to be so horrible, so very cruel, that the only things he truly cared for were his two beloved children and the thrill of the hunt.

He loved nothing more than hunting, and in particular, he loved to hunt werewolves. Half wolf, half man, the King considered these creatures unfit to roam his lands. They were not human, as humans do not have magical abilities such as transformation, but they also were not animal, as no beast can take the face of a mortal man.

He passed on his love of the hunt to his two children in the hopes that, after he had passed, they would continue in his footsteps, ridding the kingdom of the monsters he hated so.

Both children took great pride in continuing the family legacy. The King's daughter in particular, Kate, a great beauty who was admired by all, shared the king's love of the kingdom, and his hatred of the werewolves. She killed mercilessly, and fiercely, and as she grew became very skilled with a bow and arrow and sword.  
His son, however, saw the world a little differently.

Chris was the elder of the King's two children, and while he agreed that werewolves had no place within the kingdom, he devised a code to follow - one that suggested that werewolves could, under certain circumstances, be seen as unthreatening. A werewolf child, Chris believed, or a werewolf that had not shed the blood of a human, did not deserve the penalty of death.

While the King did not like his son's ideas, he nurtured them in the hopes that eventually Chris would see the error of his ways and, like his sister, cut down the werewolf scum no matter how they decreed their innocence.

Eventually, Chris did see that error.

On a hunting trip not so different to any other, the King was struck down by a werewolf, and bitten. He was poisoned from the bite, and did not survive his wounds.  
His children despaired. They had always loved their father-king the best, and his passing, in such a violent way, turned their hearts bitter. Chris, newly appointed king, decreed a law that all werewolves were to be killed on sight, and hid away in his castle, plotting his father's revenge with his new wife, Victoria.

Kate, in her grief, lost her mind. In the months that followed her father's passing she tore through the kingdom, hacking and slashing, and struck down every werewolf she could find. Nothing could stop her, and nothing eased her pain. She was rabid and wild and the forest, in seeing this, bent to her will, until she became a part of it in spirit, and it became a part of her, and her bones were the branches, her feet the tree trunks, her head the canopy high.

Eventually, after several long years of an unending blood bath, Kate's mind began to settle. Her grief was replaced by bitterness, and an empty ache in her heart, and it was in this way that she found the house of the Hale pack, on the outskirts of a town on the border of the kingdom.

For a long time she watched the werewolf pack, careful and quiet, as they lived their lives in secret in the sleepy little town. She hated them, down to her very bones, and fantasised of all the ways to kill each one, slowly and painfully so they would pay in all the worst ways. But just as she was coming to form a plan, she saw something that broke her heart: a boy. A teenage boy, the eldest son of the Alpha, and his father, conversing in the village square.

There was love there, in the boy's eyes, as he looked up to his father, as if the man could make him whole. There was the same love that Kate had felt for her father, years before, when she was whole and content. And it hurt Kate, to see that love, because she could not feel it anymore in the hollow where it had sat. And her anger and rage turned to jealousy, and her jealousy was like wild fire. She knew what she had to do.

She lured the boy in with her beauty and charm. She wove a web of lies around him, until he trusted her, until he loved her. She bid the forest to do her will and when it did, she tugged and tugged at the boy's heart until all of his secrets tumbled out.

He told her what he was. He told her that his father and mother wouldn't understand their love, wouldn't accept them because of the risk. He told her he loved her truly, and deeply, and Kate rejoiced, because she knew already she had won.

'Run away with me,' she said one night, as they shared her bed. He was tangled around her like a second skin, and she hated him with every fibre of her being but she knew she only had to wait a little longer. 'Come away with me and we will live somewhere nobody knows our names. We can rule our own kingdom together, you and me, and no one will ever question our love.'

'I cannot,' said the boy, but the seed was already planted in his head.

Eventually he came to her. In the dead of night, voices hushed, he climbed in through her window and into her bed, and as she held him he said, 'My sister's birthday is the day after next. They will all be too distracted to notice me slip away.'

Kate filled with joy, and in her dark bedroom they plotted their escape, and all the while, in the back of her head, she plotted something much more sinister.

The night of the party, while the boy was waiting for her in the forest, she burned the boy's house to the ground, his family still inside.

Kate danced in the ashes and sang to the sky. She frolicked with delight while flames lit up the town in an orange blaze. But when the boy found her there, laughing with delight, she found that something within her had changed. Because the look in his eyes, the horror, the grief, struck a chord deep inside her, until all she wanted was to hold him tight to her.

She realised that night, that in her own twisted way, she had fallen in love him.

It disgusted her. To think that she, the daughter of the greatest king the kingdom had ever seen, had fallen for a werewolf? Her stomach filled with bile at the thought. And she hated the boy, for plucking out her heart like that, as much as she hated him for what he was, and loved him even so. Torn and wretched, she called on the forest for answers. The forest did her bidding.

We can rule our own kingdom together, she had said, and rule they did. For the boy had lost his heart that night, as she had lost hers, and they fell together, broken and weeping, and escaped to the forest to be swallowed whole. And there they stayed, for years and years to come.

 

-

 

Stiles is picking apples in the orchard when he sees a party on horseback coming down the road towards the border. He yells out for Scott to double check he is seeing right, because while Scott was never good at climbing or running or jumping or anything that involved breathing, he can definitely see pretty good. So Scott climbs into the tree with Stiles and they both peer over the forest canopy towards the road. And sure enough, Stiles is right. There is a party riding up the road on horseback.

Which is promptly when Scott remembers that the party are coming to Beacon Hills, and there is a feast to be held in their honour, and the bushel of apples his mother asked him to collect a handful of hours ago is still sitting at the bottom of the tree undelivered (because, in his boredom, Scott brought along Stiles, as if they were not attached by the hip and Stiles does not automatically go everywhere with Scott, and Stiles had been hungry, and then somewhere along the way they had ended up eating far too many apples and then snoozing under the trees).

They take off at a run towards town.

Now, the orchard itself is not so much a farmed orchard as a patch of fruit trees that appear to have grown wild in the last decade or so, and while the locals help themselves to the fruit on the occasions that they need it, it is near an hour’s walk along a trail that is hard enough to spot in the midday sun let alone in the dark. And it's getting pretty close towards sunset, so they don't have a lot of time to get home.

They are fifteen minutes from the edge of town, however, when Stiles realises that he left his coat in the orchard. And while he would usually, happily, leave the thing there until he can be bothered to go back and get it in a day or two, it is, undoubtedly, the nicest thing that Stiles owns, and if he shows up to a feast without the best of his clothing on, and clean, his father will most definitely box his ears. So Stiles has no choice but to go back and get the wretched thing.

Scott is not pleased at this idea.

'You are going to be so late, Stiles. Your father will kill you!'

'Maybe,' says Stiles, 'but he will kill me harder if I come home without it.'

'But it's getting dark!' presses Scott. 'What if you get lost?'

'I will just have to risk it,' says Stiles. 'And if you see my father, tell him - tell him I am –’ He trips, catching his heel on an unearthed tree root, and goes sprawling onto his backside. It knocks the wind out of him, and for a moment he sits on the faint trail, puffing. Perhaps, he thinks, it is better to leave his father in the dark. ‘Perhaps don't see him, alright?'

And then Stiles stumbles off, back up the path towards the orchard, and preys that he will be able to find his way back home in the twilight.

Finding his way to the orchard is, unsurprisingly, easy. The sun is setting, but it is behind him, so the light falls on the path ahead, and his shadow stretches out in front of him, and the line where feet have trod is easy to spot. He reaches the orchard in record time, and the sun is still high enough that if he can find his bloody coat quickly enough, he can maybe make it home before the light is all gone.

Of course, it takes him several long minutes of looking before he realises, with great disappointment, that no, the one most important article of clothing that Stiles owns is not, in fact, in the orchard, unless it has either a) swept away into the forest, in which case Stiles is never getting it back, or b) swept up a tree, in which case Stiles is never putting enough effort in to get it back, no matter how much it costs him. He sighs, put out, because now he is going to look like a right idiot for no reason again, and decides that maybe it is time to go home.

That is when he hears someone moving in the trees behind him.

There is the sharp snap of a twig breaking underfoot, and if Stiles did not frighten like a scared rabbit he might have even picked up on just how deliberate it was, how it sounded as if to draw his attention purposely. Instead Stiles jerks, his heart kicking very loudly to life behind his ribs, and then spins about towards the sound.

Two spots glow eerie blue at the edge of the clearing. Stiles catches hold of a low branch to keep himself steady.

And then a man steps out into the clearing, and the blue spots glowing are his dark eyes, and in his hand is Stiles’ coat.

If Stiles’ heart was beating hard and erratic before, then the instant he and the man’s eyes fall upon one another, his heart stops dead, frozen in his chest. Because this man is – is – _beautiful_ , pale skin and dark hair and sharp features and broad shoulders, and he is scowling, and he is coming towards Stiles and –

Stiles leaps back with a squawk. His back hits the apple tree. The man comes far too close, leans into Stiles’ space, growling.

'Oh good,' says Stiles, voice cracking. 'You found it.'

The man grabs Stiles roughly around the neck and throws him back into the trunk of the tree behind him. Up close he is much more than a beautiful face with leering blue eyes. Up close he is snapping teeth and fierce, inhuman features with pointed ears and too much hair. And Stiles realises, with a gasp, just what this man is.

But that is impossible.

'What are you doing on my land?' snarls the werewolf.

Stiles gulps, back pressed tight against the bark, one hand tight on a nearby branch, the other tugging aimlessly at the werewolf's fist gripping his shirt. 'Coat?' he wheezes.

'This orchard is not for the use of subjects. This orchard is for the Queen!'

'The Queen?' gasps Stiles, even as the werewolf's grip on him grows tighter. 'But she died a week ago!'

It is true. A day or two ago a message came from the citadel informing the citizens of Stiles' town that Chris' wife, Victoria, had been killed tragically when an alpha werewolf had somehow gotten not only into the kingdom, not only into the citadel itself, but into the queen's chambers. The whole kingdom was in mourning for their strong and steadfast queen, and the royal family, reportedly, were beside themselves. Men were being sent for, town to town, like a war was set to rage.

The werewolf, however, looks nothing if not confused. 'Died?' he says. 'You must be mistaken. I saw her not an hour ago.'

'What?' stutters Stiles, because this guy is talking crazy. And he would add that, in passing, but the werewolf also has shiny-sharp teeth and enough strength to snap Stiles' body into pieces. So he holds his tongue.

The werewolf seems to consider all that's been said, and after a long pause lets Stiles go, flinging him sideways in dismissal. 'You're a fool,' he snaps, adding insult to injury. 'You must be; you look well enough the part.' And then he tosses the scrap of Stiles' jacket in the mud at Stiles' feet.

Stiles takes his chances. He picks up the jacket, and makes a beeline for the path. Of course by now the sun is low, and it's too hard to find his way home. He panics more, if it's at all possible, glancing into the dark of the trees for a sign, any sign at all.

'Get out of here,' growls the werewolf over Stiles' shoulder, 'before I tear your throat out with my teeth.'

'I would love to,' snaps Stiles - and oh, he should have learned by now to watch his tongue before it runs away from him, but apparently that's impossible, even in near death situations with a raging monster making casual threats in your general direction, 'but my weakling human eyes are having a little trouble here finding the way home.'

The werewolf gives a huff of impatience, but after a moment he pushes past Stiles and into the line of trees. 'It is this way,' he says, and then turns back, glaring. 'Are you coming or not?'

Stiles gapes. He has heard stories about werewolves before, about what they can do and the ways they can trick and taunt. He has read books about werewolves that eat humans, and werewolves that take children from their beds at night, and werewolves like rabid beasts whose bite can turn a human into a snarling monster just like them. The devil is a wolf, someone told him once, and he comes to you on the full moon and sows the seeds of deceit in your head. Tells you lies that feel more real than the truth. Spins stories you can’t help but believe.

This man – werewolf, because that’s what he is, not a human – is a beast, a beast who Stiles has seen now, and yet instead of biting, or scratching, or snarling or ripping or tearing or any of those things Stiles expects from the stories, this beast has become a man who offers Stiles help. Who steps back from the start of the path, arm wide and offering, and looks upon Stiles as if he deserves Stiles’ thanks.

‘What do you want from me?’ asks Stiles, wary.

‘Who says I want anything?’ asks the werewolf.

Stiles shakes his head. ‘Well, then, why are you offering me help?’

The werewolf growls, turns on his heel and is at the other side of the clearing before Stiles can react. ‘If you do not want my help then –’

‘No!’ cries Stiles, ‘Wait!’

And he is not sure why it is that he shouted it, other than the fact that the sun has now sunk and the cold and dark are lurking around them. But the werewolf stops, sudden and sharp, and even with his back to Stiles, Stiles can tell the look on his face, a smirk like he might eat Stiles whole and spit out the bones. The werewolf cocks his head, questioning.

‘It is too dark,’ Stiles says, and it comes out barely above a whisper, grating on his throat. ‘I shall probably get lost if I…’

The werewolf turns, his face carefully blank. ‘I know the forest better than anyone,’ he says, just loud enough for Stiles to hear. Then he walks forward, or strides, sharp and fast and with purpose, and before he knows it the werewolf has one strong, warm hand gripping at his arm, so tight his fingers tingle. The werewolf pulls him back towards the path to home. ‘I will take you back to your town.’

‘But I shouldn’t –’

‘I will not bite you,’ says the werewolf. He stops at the crest of the trees, turns back so his green, green eyes are looking right into Stiles, right through him. ‘No harm will come to you. I promise.’

You do not trust strangers. You do not trust strangers in the dark, in the forest. And you certainly do not trust werewolves. There are bells ringing inside Stiles’ head, loud and bright and clear, saying no, stop, he will eat you alive. But they are not nearly as loud as the part of his mind that knows if he goes back on his own he will only get lost. He has not been in the forest in the dark since… since his mother. Because his father cannot always keep an eye on him. Because his father must look after the entire town, not just Stiles who cannot be trusted not to do stupid things like wandering around in the dark in the woods on his own.

‘I have a knife,’ Stiles lies, tugging until the werewolf sets him free. ‘I know exactly how to use it, too. One wrong move, one move to even suggest you might –’

‘You are lying,’ says the werewolf calmly. He does not blink, does not look away. Just opens his mouth and the words come out. ‘But I understand. And I give you my word as a man.’ He offers his hand, then, and it’s human, all the half-moon nails and folds of skin over his knuckle, the creases in his palm.

‘You are not a man,’ says Stiles.

There is a tick in the werewolf’s mouth, like he might even be smiling, might be grimacing, and then he huffs. ‘Fine, then my word as prince.’

This is no prince, thinks Stiles, but somehow lets his replying hand be enveloped in too-smooth, too-warm skin. The werewolf grumbles, content, and then starts at the path as if he has walked it ten thousand times before. Stiles follows after, suddenly eager to know everything about his guide.

‘Prince?’ he asks, trying not to gasp in breaths around the word. The werewolf walks fast, too fast for Stiles to keep up easily.

‘You do not know much about the forest,’ says the werewolf, ‘do you?’

Stiles lives in a tiny town with its back pressed against the very edge of the kingdom of December. He can see the wolfsbane wall from his bedroom window, and he and his father live close to the edge of town. They don’t get visitors, do not get guests, do not often get news from the citadel for weeks at a time, sometimes months, unless there is a death or birth or call for war. They only know about Victoria because of the messenger who came looking for soldiers three or four days ago. They wanted able-bodied men of fourteen or more. They skipped Scott for the way he can never catch his breath, skipped Stiles for the way he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Because Stiles never could.

‘I know as much as I ever needed to,’ he boasts. ‘I know every type of tree that grows within an hour’s walk of my house, and where the best berries grow, and where to find good rabbits, and where the Whittemores hunt down deer. I also know which paths are safest to walk on at which time of day –’

‘And yet,’ says the werewolf sharply, ‘you ignore your own head.’

‘Yes,’ breezes Stiles, ‘well, we cannot all be perfect. You did not answer my question.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want to,’ replies the werewolf. ‘Now be quiet.’

Stiles stumbles headlong over something, likely his own feet, and smacks into a low-hanging branch face first. The werewolf catches him, but only pauses long enough to right Stiles before he continues walking. Stiles trips along behind him, unperturbed.

‘What is the use of being quiet when I have a werewolf as a guide?’ he asks, voice too loud in the dark. ‘Because that is what you are, aren’t you? You are a werewolf.’  
The werewolf growls.

‘You know,’ continues Stiles, ignoring the way his heart hitches at the noise, ‘they told me – my mother did, actually – that there were not any of your kind left in the kingdom. That they had all been tracked down by the King’s crazy sister.’

‘Well,’ says the werewolf, ‘maybe she was wrong.’

Stiles snorts a laugh, ducks the next low branch. ‘I have never seen one before,’ he says. ‘I mean, I was too young when they all got chased out, but we live pretty close to the wall, so I would have thought… you know, given where we are, that we might have – but anyway. My teachers have all said that the most dangerous thing in this forest is mountain lions. I have never seen one of those either, though, so… at any rate, I do not think a mountain lion would be much of a match for you, with your claws and your teeth and your…’ He makes a mock howling noise, and the werewolf snarls at him, speeds up.

They travel at too fast a pace for Stiles to catch his breath enough to chatter aimlessly as he usually would. He begins to understand how it must feel like to be Scott, constantly breathless with barely a chance to stop and take a break. But it is alright, perhaps, because before too long the trees start to thin, and through the darkness Stiles makes out the edge of town, the houses that back into the forest. The last of the straggling villagers are making their way to the hall for the feast.

The werewolf stops at the edge of the forest. He seems hesitant to go any further. Stiles glances towards his home, stomach rumbling, and then back to the werewolf again.

'Thank you,' he says. When the werewolf only blinks at him, Stiles gets terribly afraid that he is about to be eaten alive.

'This was not a favour,' warns the werewolf.

Stiles feels his stomach drop out. 'I owe you?' he bleats. 'But I do not have anything to pay you with!'

'You will,' says the werewolf, cryptic. 'When the time comes, you will repay me.'

And then he disappears into the shadow of the woods, dark hair and fangs and shining eyes, and Stiles knows that when the adrenalin fades he will probably do something like keel over or throw up and most likely it will be in front of a room full of people. But he is alive, and unharmed, and even if he owes a favour to a werewolf, at least he has his health.

For now, anyway.

 

-

 

The feast goes about as well as could be expected. Stiles comes rushing in extremely late, covered head to toe in mud and leaves, and to his absolute horror discovers that the party of travellers the feast is being held for consists of Chris Argent, king of December, and his beautiful daughter, the Princess Allison, and their servants.

So that's all well and good.

They do not explain what has brought them to the town, even in their time of mourning, although no one is going to question their presence. But a town as far out as theirs is doesn't see the likes of royalty very often, if at all. And Stiles' father, the Sheriff, is on edge all night, his meal half-touched, his cup still full. When he is not sighing dejectedly over Stiles' misfortunes (a topic the King seems to appreciate enough, if his pleasant but disinterested tone is anything to go by) he is all about the room, keeping everything in order. By the end of the evening, even as Stiles is getting into bed, his father is busy rushing to and fro, and in the morning when Stiles wakes his father's bed is untouched.

 

-

 

The afternoon after the feast Scott comes racing into Stiles' front yard as Stiles is picking vegetables from the garden. Scott is flustered and breathing hard but he has a broad grin on his face.

'Stiles! Stiles!' he cries, and then flops down into the dirt, arms and legs akimbo. He wheezes for a moment, mouth open wide, but them ploughs on, even as he is in a heap. 'Stiles, I am in love!'

Stiles pauses, hands reaching for an overripe squash, to stare at his best friend. Scott, he notes, is lying half in his father's precious flower bed. When Scott sits up his elbow grinds into a patch of something green that probably won't recover.

'With who?' asks Stiles.

Scott grins harder, if that's at all possible. 'With the Princess,' he says, his voice turned soft and gooey.

Stiles balks. 'The Pr - Princess - Princess _Allison_?' he stutters.

Scott sighs, delighted.

'Scott, she is nobility. She is first in line for the throne.'

Scott shrugs. 'But it's love, Stiles. It is meant to be. You have said it yourself - you know when it's true.'

Stiles winces at that, because he can remember saying it once upon a time. But Stiles had been in love with one girl for almost as long as he can remember. Her name is Lydia, and she is - she is -

The important part is that Lydia does not love him back. She's betrothed to Jackson Whittemore, the son of the richest man in Beacon Hills, and a soldier sent off to presumably hunt down the queen's murderer. So no matter how true it felt, still feels sometimes, by the way his chest aches at the thought of Lydia's strawberry blonde hair, it can never be.

'I told her about my father,' says Scott, clambering to his feet. He brushes dust off the seat of his pants and looms over Stiles unhelpfully. 'I know it is not the same as losing a parent to death, but I still gave her my condolences and told her what it was like when he left and she asked me to sit with her and Lydia.'

Stiles glances up at that. 'Lydia was sitting with the Princess?'

Scott nods. Of course Lydia would befriend the Princess - she is smart and beautiful and all of her life suitors have come from all over December, and other kingdoms as well, to ask for her hand in marriage. Lydia Martin is without doubt the closest thing to nobility to live in Beacon Hills. So it makes sense, then, that she'd befriend a princess.

'What did they talk about?' asks Stiles, beside himself.

'I don't know,' says Scott, scratching the back of his head. 'Girlish things. I was too busy admiring Princess Allison to notice.'

'Well,' says Stiles, 'good luck with that.'

Scott does not seem in the slightest bit fazed that Stiles has dismissed him. Mind, he is also fairly twitterpated at the thought of the Princess and her dark coiling hair (Scott's words) and her wide, fawn-like eyes (also Scott's words), and the dimples when she smiles (Scott), and her laugh (Scott), and the way she walks (at this point there is little need to point out that it all comes straight from Scott’s oversized gob), and how brave she is, and how she says his name, and...

Stiles rolls his eyes and decides that now is as good a time as any to change the subject.

'I met a man in the forest last night,' he says, as Scott pauses to catch his breath mid-ramble.

Scott pauses, frowning. 'Was he a traveller?' he asks.

'I do not think so,' replies Stiles. 'But that is not the important part. He was a werewolf.'

Scott's eyebrows fly up into his hairline. 'But that is impossible,' he says.

'My thoughts exactly,' replies Stiles, and busies his hands in the garden patch again.

'But how do you know?' asks Scott, bewildered. He glances around for a moment, and then leans in, voice low like he is worried they will be overheard. 'Did he - did he bite you?'

Stiles shoots him a glance. 'What do you think?'

Scott shrugs. 'I don't know. Is that not what they do?'

'Maybe,' says Stiles. 'I think I expected it of him. He certainly frightened me half to death. But then, completely out of nowhere, after he had been growling and shoving me, he helped me find my way home.'

'Wow,' says Scott. 'Do you think it was the werewolf that killed the Queen?'

'I do not know,' replies Stiles. 'I hope not. I owe him a favour.'

'A- a _favour_?!' Scott cries, and oh hell, here is the start of one of Scott's Lets Scream Out of Confusion and Frustration and Concern episodes. Scott gets a grip on Stiles arm and drags him inside, even though there is no one around to spy or overhear their conversation. Stiles is not an idiot. He is not just going to drop news like this lightly. Still, he follows Scott in, dirt cakes falling from his knees, and sits down where Scott directs him and then waits as Scott blows up.

' _You owe a werewolf a favour_? How could you do that, Stiles? He's a murderer!'

'There is no proving that,' cuts in Stiles, calmly.

'HE IS A VICIOUS BEAST! HE RIPPED THE QUEEN'S HEAD RIGHT OFF HER BODY!'

'Now that is just speculation at most, Scott.'

'HOW ARE YOU SO CALM?'

Stiles, for the most part, is very much like a frightened rabbit. He is a coddled young man, he grew up with a sheriff for a father; he has always been safe, protected. The most danger he sees in his life is the kind that ends with bruising and humiliation. So the thought of coming face to face with a werewolf is most definitely pants-wettingly scary. The thought of _owing_ a werewolf is even more scary, because there is no knowing what exactly the werewolf is going to want him for, and it may well be related to Stiles' untimely demise.

Still, there is something oddly calming about letting Scott do all the panicking. Because while Stiles will pack up his fear and hysteria into a box in his head that he leaves to deal with on the first of never, Scott lets his fly free by way of colourful expletives and whatever the opposite of an inside voice is. And seeing that, seeing Scott completely lose control and shout and flail until his voice cracks and he has to sit down or pass out from lack of oxygen, it means that Scott is half way to calm again. Because Scott panics, has his little hissy fit, and then steels himself up and gets on with it. And if Scott is getting on with it, so can Stiles.

'YOU ARE GOING TO DIE, STILES! HE IS GOING TO EAT YOU ALIVE, OR -'

'He is not going to eat me alive, Scott,' says Stiles.

'BUT HE'S GOING TO BITE YOU AND THE KING'S CRAZY SISTER WILL -'

'Okay,' says Stiles, 'do you not remember the part where Kate was locked away years ago after she murdered that family that lived here?'

Scott looks lost.

'The Hale family?' prompts Stiles. 'They lived in that big house that burned down? Kate did that because she thought they were werewolves.'

'Weren't they?' asks Scott.

'I do not know,' is Stiles' reply. 'It is beside the point. Look: this werewolf? He walked me home in the dark. It was a half an hour out of his spare time. And maybe I owe him for that, but I very much doubt that that is worth death or grievous bodily harm or bleeding myself dry. And if he wants to make me a werewolf too, then I will... politely tell him no thank you, back away slowly, and hope he is not particularly determined. It will be fine.'

It probably won't be fine.

 

-

 

It is not fine. It is most definitely the opposite of fine.

Three days pass. Three horrible, distracted, jolting days in which Stiles finds himself doing nothing but unnecessary double takes and waiting for a big, hulking monster to come out from that shadow or around that corner and swallow him whole. He feels useless, and agitated more than he usually is, even to the point where his father - who is too busy running around, pulling his hair out for the town's royal visitors to notice the hole Scott left in his beloved flower patch - stops one morning right as he is about to fly out the front door and asks Stiles if everything is alright.

Nothing is alright, thinks Stiles. He owes a werewolf a favour. And nothing is settling the panic in his gut. Not Scott's panic explosion, not offering his hands for a solid day's work to several of the women who have just lost sons to the werewolf hunt, not even listening to Scott concoct sonnets out of thin air about the beauteous way Allison does stuff.

On that third day, Stiles finds himself in the Mahealani family's backyard, chopping wood (a task that Mrs Mahaelani can no longer do with her bad wrists and Mr Mahaelani has no time for). He takes to the pile like he has slept for years, like over time his strength has built and built and never faltered. 

Before too long his arms start to ache from the swing chop, and he feels heavy, like he has been chopping for hours already, but he craves the sting. Stiles finds something cathartic in the constant, something truly distracting. When he sets his mind to it he can almost fall into a trance, ignore the world around himself, and focus completely on the swing chop, the axe grinding through wood, sliding through like a hot knife through new butter. It is only if he pauses too long he’s reminded of the unsolved mystery of the werewolf in the forest, and Stiles' owed favour, his mind wandering back to that night three days gone, and his face heats, his heart quickens, and it hurts too much to think about at all.

He even gets lost in the rhythm of it after a while, after the ache in his arms and shoulders becomes a steady burn, so intently chopping away, so madly bringing his arms up and down and shifting the wood that he barely notices the way the sun starts to sink in the sky. He barely notices the mound of chopped wood at his feet growing taller, and taller, and spilling over the side of the basket. He grips the axe past the slip slide of the sweat on his palms, until his skin prickles hot against the sting of the afternoon sun, until his breathing is ragged and his tongue is dry and sticks numbly to the roof of his mouth, and then –

And then a sound breaks the tree tops and Stiles stops dead, axe slipping in his grip. It is an ugly sound – a haunted, half-human sound, half way between an animal howl and a cut-off, jerking scream, and it jolts Stiles to the root of his bones, makes him whip around and stare, wide eyed, into the depths of the trees behind the house.

No man could make that noise.

Stiles is off like a shot, running, blundering into the undergrowth as if his very life depends on it. But it does not – the werewolf’s life depends on it, because that had to be, that couldn’t be anything else. Stiles pushes forwards blindly, hurdling obstacles almost faster than he can see himself. Were he not rife with panic, it would possibly occur to him that it’s the most graceful he has ever been, legs storming hard in a chase that’s part fearful and part anxious, but all Stiles can manage is the draw of breath that catches in his windpipe, drags painfully in his chest, the urge to run so much faster, push that much harder, find the werewolf.

He is running so fast he does not realise that he does not know where he is going. He is running so fast that he can barely see past the whip of outreaching branches, sweat dripping into his eyes. He is running so fast that he almost trips over the werewolf – does, in fact, trip over the werewolf. Trips and falls heavily, landing hard on his hands and knees.

The werewolf yelps, pained.

Stiles realises, absently that he is still holding the axe, and that now the butt is digging into the rotting leaves, the sharp tip swaying dangerously close to his face. He lets it drop to the ground, fingers aching from his tight grip, and then scrambles back, a little stunned at himself. His feet, unshod, he realises far too late, nudge up against something silky soft, something warm, and he flinches away again.

It is not the werewolf he tripped over. It is actually a wolf. An animal. Nothing about it is half of a man, sharp fangs and bright eyes and course hair on a human frame.

The wolf is laid out on its belly, tail twitching in the leaf litter and its muzzle pressed under one front paw. The other paw is caught, trapped, oozing blood into the forest floor. It is braced between a metal mouth, teeth ragged and razor sharp.

Stiles gasps at the bear trap, glinting teeth and jagged jaw stabbing out of the undergrowth. The wolf cries. Stiles juts forward, hands shaking. He crawls around, hesitant of teeth, of fangs, of the way the wolf seems wary of his presence. But then he lets himself ease closer and closer until his trembling fingers, if he let them, could brush the shiny metal trap. It is then, unsteadily flinching forward, that the wolf looks up, locks eyes with him, looks right through Stiles. Its eyes are the blue, that blue that the werewolf’s eyes changed to.

‘Werewolf?’ breathes Stiles, frozen stiff. He realises that he does not even know the man – thing – his name. ‘Werewolf man? Are you… is it you?’

The wolf gives a snuffle, almost appears annoyed in an oddly human way.

‘Who did this to you?’ Stiles murmurs, edging forward again. ‘Are you – is it –’ He reaches out and with the tips of his fingers brushes the trapped paw, just above where the metal teeth sink in, the flesh becomes gore.

The wolf rears back, snapping, but the noise it makes is stuttering and pained.

‘I’m sorry!’ Stiles cries, pressing closer. ‘I am sorry, I won’t –’ He gasps, torn. It’s getting dark, fast, and all he really has to see by is the failing light against the metal of the trap. ‘Here,’ he says, close enough that he does not have to shuffle in anymore, but sitting back a little on his knees. ‘Let me help you.’

Stiles lets his fingers creep forward again, this time headed towards the trap. The wolf growls, a sound vibrating from deep inside it. Stiles pauses, but he shifts his gaze up, stares the wolf dead on. ‘Let me help you,’ he presses, weight behind his voice. The wolf’s eyes are dark sparks, glaring out at him, shiny yellow teeth bared. For a long moment nothing happens but the rush in Stiles’ ears, the hard thump of his heart against his ribcage.

The wolf lays its head back down. Stiles takes it as a sign to continue, kneels forward purposefully.

He has never opened a bear trap before, never even seen one up close since he was small, maybe eight or nine, and Scott’s father took Stiles and Scott hunting for rabbits. Scott’s father had not ever been good for much other than the deer and rabbits he brought home, for putting some semblance of a meal on the table. At the time the three of them went hunting, Stiles had been less interested in catching a meal and more in seeing docile forest animals blinking mulishly up at him. He can remember watching Scott’s father and a friend, another hunter, setting a trap that was only mostly similar to this one, not nearly as sharp-looking or quite so mechanically-charged, taking certain care to keep their fingers far, far away from the jaws. He can remember bursting into tears at seeing a caught rabbit have its neck wrung, being too afraid to watch when they brought down a doe with a crossbow bolt and slit its throat so the blood poured out over his boots.

But the trap. Stiles cannot remember, does not know how to open the trap.

‘Okay,’ he mutters to himself, and spends a good moment just glaring at the leg trap so the red blurs in his vision and his stomach hardens to knots, getting his bearing about him. He rubs his grubby hands on his grubbier trousers, hoping the friction will at least make his palms less slick, grip better.

He takes a breath. He gets a grip on the jaws, fingers between its teeth. He pulls.

The trap seems to lurch unsteadily under his fingers. The wolf holds back a sound, controlled so well that it does not even start more than to jerk its head back. And then slowly, through Stiles’ strain, the trap…

… _starts_ …

… _to give_.

Stiles breathes, He breathes and he pulls, he breathes and he is sure, he is sure he can see the trap moving, the jaws shifting open. He grunts under the effort. His arms start to shake. But the wolf is not moving, does not have nearly enough room to escape, and then –

And then Stiles’ fingers slip and the trap slides shut further with a sickening noise.

The wolf howls bloody murder, and then it is a human instead, it is the werewolf, and he is screaming in absolute agony, feet scrabbling in the dirt, naked flesh turning to goose pimples and teeth clenched and fingers grasping. Stiles stares in horror at the hand caught in the trap – the grizzly sick of sticky, bright blood over his pale fist and sloshing onto the earth, his fingers jerking, half curled.

‘Stop!’ shouts the werewolf. His eyes are shimmying blue so it curls in and out of the green, and his whole face is scrunched up with pain. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

Stiles tumbles back onto his backside, because it is, it’s him, and suddenly there is so much blood that he can smell it. He wants to be sick for a moment, can feel his stomach jerk and clench painfully. He claps a hand over his mouth, kicks back and away, breathless.

‘I need you to help me,’ snaps the werewolf, breathing turned to exhausted gasps in his chest. His whole frame is shiny sharp with sweat, and he curls in on himself, more likely out of pain than a want to cover his nakedness.

‘Pay attention, boy,’ he snaps. When Stiles only shudders in reply, he shouts, ‘Hey!’ as if he is trying to wake Stiles from a nightmare. A sick part of Stiles’ mind whispers, teeth muddy, that he wishes it to be true.

Stiles swallows around a sound that he would rather not admit to and then nods his head to show he is listening. His eyes drag up from the mess of the werewolf’s hand, up the taught muscles of his arm to his face, which is human, and fragile, and –

Scared.

Stiles feels his heart lurch sickeningly. ‘Yes,’ he grits out, not liking what the werewolf is going to ask him.

‘The axe,’ says the werewolf, voice dangerously calm. ‘I need you to get the axe.’

It takes Stiles a panic-stricken minute to get to his feet, slipping and skittering as he goes. He glances around the dark forest floor, around the werewolf, his heart like a frightened jack rabbit in his chest. When he spots the axe he shifts too fast towards it, goes sprawling. His hands struggle for grasp, and for the first time Stiles can see the dark on them – the drying blood from the bear trap. His hands shake as he finally manages to pick up the axe, and then it is as if a fog lifts. He has the axe in his hands, and he is standing steady on his feet. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath to clear his head.

He turns back to the werewolf.

‘What do I need to do?’

The werewolf does not answer for a moment, tenses his trapped arm as if he is preparing himself for the worst, and oh, holy God, he is, isn’t he?

‘You have to cut my arm off,’ he says.

‘I –’ says Stiles, ‘– what?’

‘You have to cut my arm off,’ the werewolf says again, as if it were only that Stiles misheard him. ‘Trying to pry it open will only make it shut tighter, and you need at least two men to trigger the spring mechanism to open it properly.’

‘I can get people,’ says Stiles, mind running a thousand miles an hour. He can get Scott perhaps, or Deaton, the man who runs the apothecary, maybe. It would take far too much explaining to his father to want to bother him, but if Stiles is careful then maybe he can get –

‘I would bleed to death first,’ comes the werewolf’s too-calm reply. ‘You have to do it.’ The last part is grit out through his teeth. Stiles shudders, eyes the hand in question.

‘You’d bleed to death if I cut it off,’ he says, and he knows it so clearly that it comes out low and even, unwavering.

‘I won’t,’ says the werewolf. ‘I can – werewolves can heal fast. It will heal.’

‘With your hand?’ babbles Stiles. ‘Will your hand grow back, or will it be just a stump? Because I am pretty sure –’

‘Boy!’ cries the werewolf, and there it is. Finality.

Stiles can feel it settle in his chest like a solid weight, a lump that wraps around his guts and grips tight. When he locks his stare with the werewolf this time he cannot look away – the blue in his eyes that flash, supernatural, has ebbed, leaving green eyes that make him look like a man; a young man, not much older than Stiles, hair slick with sweat and fear and grim, nasty determination.

Stiles has to do it, he decides. If this is the only way to save the werewolf, then Stiles will do it.

He takes a steadying breath, lifts the axe in his hands. The moon is rising above him, a silver coin that shines white down on them, turning the blood inky blue-black.  
Stiles holds his breath. The axe glints in the moonlight.

The axe. Stiles nearly chokes he’s so relieved, and he holds the axe side on so he can better study the width of the blade, compare it to the clenched-shut jaws of the leg trap.

'What are you doing?' snaps the werewolf.

Stiles does not even glance up, just grins. 'Saving your hand,' he replies, smug, and then gets to work wedging the axe head inside the bear trap.

'I told you,' growls the werewolf, 'prying it apart will only -'

'Prying it with my fingers, maybe,' says Stiles, 'but this way I have leverage. I have - hah!' The axe locks in place between two teeth, and Stiles begins to pry the trap apart.

It is a slow process. The more he gets it open the more slippery the trap becomes with blood, and Stiles has to be so careful, because another snap back might just take the werewolf's hand clean off and then they will be in real trouble. But he takes it in stages, in tiny little steps, slowly and surely, until it is as wide as the length of the axe head.

'Now,' breathes Stiles, his arms shaking. 'Quick, now!'

There is a beat where the werewolf, who has shifted closer to Stiles to ease the shaking of his arm, blinks up at him, eyes wide and surprised. But then he tears back with an ugly wet sound, teeth tearing at the corners where his skin still catches.

And he is free. Stiles freed the werewolf.

Stiles _saved_ the werewolf.

Stiles drops the axe handle, his fingers numb, and barely flinches when the bear trap snaps back into place. He sits there, the werewolf at his side, and the pair of them just breathe for a moment, and take in their victory.

'Stiles,' says Stiles eventually. His voice is still shaking, and his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears, feel it all up and down his arms.

'Hmm?' asks the werewolf.

'My name is Stiles,' Stiles repeats, and then turns towards the werewolf.

The werewolf has slumped down into the forest floor, back in the dirt and legs half-curled, and he watches his hand patch itself up, the skin knit itself back together. Stiles is torn between morbid fascination and disgust but finds either way that he cannot bring himself to look away.

'Are you alright?' he asks, quiet.

The werewolf glances up. 'Thank you,' he says. 'Your debt has been paid.'

Stiles blinks, finds his gaze drifting back towards the town, however far away it is. 'Is that why I -' he looks back, finds the werewolf watching him with a careful expression. 'Is that why I came running?'

The werewolf nods. 'I called out to you, and you came.'

Something goes through Stiles, then. Something like - like surprise, shock, but also warmth, like pride, maybe, and content. He is stunned, because he is not sure why he might feel like that, has no reason to feel anything like that. He should be terrified, should be turning and running, screaming to the high heavens A WEREWOLF, THERE IS A WEREWOLF, EVERYONE COME AND KILL THE WEREWOLF.

He does not know what to say to that. So instead he says, 'I did not catch your name.'

'Derek,' says the werewolf, without pause. His injured hand is resting at his bare ribs now, still sticky with his blood, but whole again, shifting with the easy rise and fall of his breath. He looks so... at peace... and it strikes Stiles as odd that he could sit there, bare to his skin, and not shy away.

'Well,' says Stiles, and his voice breaks in a way it has not since he first tried to court Lydia, 'you are welcome, Derek.'

Stiles makes to stand, then. He is overcome with dizziness, though, and the sudden urge to throw up all down himself, and this is the adrenaline and shock seeping out of his system, he thinks distantly, even as he wavers. Before he has a chance to steady himself, though, Derek has scrambled forward and planted himself behind Stiles, his arm catching Stiles’ left shoulder, holding him in place.

'You are in shock,' Derek tells him, chest pressed close behind Stiles’ other shoulder. 'Sit still a minute.'

Stiles' heart is in his throat. 'I am fine.'

'Your pulse is beating much too fast.'

Stiles glances up towards Derek, and their faces are so close that their noses brush. 'You can hear my heart beat?'

Derek nods, a quiet huff escaping him, and Stiles wants, wants so badly, cannot look away from Derek's half-open mouth.

Derek puts his other hand on Stiles’ middle. Stiles looks down towards it, finds himself drawing the hand closer to his face to study the now unbroken skin. Everything is perfect, under the layer of rust. The skin and pores, the blue veins along the inside of his wrist, every whorl of his fingerprints. It is incredible.

‘You are amazing,’ breathes Stiles, and looks up again, to Derek’s face so close to his own. ‘This is impossible, what you did.’

Derek barely moves, does not have to move much at all, just shifts his mouth over to Stiles' and then they are kissing, and the adrenalin must still be flooding Stiles' body right under the surface because his body goes wild with butterflies, and the nausea swells into something different, into heat and friction and arousal. One long kiss turns into another, turns into a third, and on and on until Stiles is dizzy.

It is easy to let Derek push him down, guide Stiles to the forest floor and then let Derek climb on top of him, rock down and catch Stiles' mouth again.

 

-

 

Of all the times Stiles had considered giving himself to someone else the first time, he had, admittedly, always pictured it would be Lydia. It would be Lydia, in her bed clothes, her long hair hanging in careful curls down her back. They would lose themselves to one another in their marriage bed, and it would be warm and Lydia's skin would be soft and there would be candles and blankets to crawl under afterwards, and Stiles would breathe the words, 'I love you,' into Lydia's hair in the afterglow. It would be her pale thighs and her smile that always wrecks him, and in the morning they would wake up curled around one another and start all over again.

Stiles shakes after Derek has taken his innocence. He shakes because he is cold with the hard ground pressed against his spine, and his shirt is pushed up under his arms and his trousers are open, come drying slowly on his stomach. He shakes because he's not sure why it has all just happened, why he let himself be drawn into lust like a disease, like the touch of Derek's skin sent him wild and wanting. He shakes because he knows, most definitely, that all of this is wrong.

Derek sits back, eyes dark. The spell that caught them both has lifted. Derek will not catch his eye, and the shame that stabs through Stiles has him pulling himself together too fast, making an escape as fast as his scrambling feet will take him.

He can never tell anybody. This secret will go with him to the grave.

 

-

 

He doesn't expect to see Derek ever again. He doesn't even want to see the werewolf again, because he is so ashamed of what he did. So he throws himself into anything that crosses his path: odd jobs in the town that come his way, his studies, Scott's imagined love life.

In fact, he spends so much time discussing the Argents that he finds himself engrossed in gossip. He spends what feels like hours at a time arguing with the women in the town square market, bickering over that new dress Lydia's just been given that's worth more than half the houses on the west side, or what the king does when he disappears into the forest for long, long stretches of time, and why, if half the kingdom are being forced to give up their sons, there is the smallest of guards on the royal family?

Nothing, however, compares to the absolute goldmine Scott gives him, when he mentions in passing one afternoon that Allison said her aunt Kate was coming to town. For the two days leading to Kate's arrival, the town is abuzz with rumours. The baker tells Stiles not hours after Stiles has passed the news onto a woman at the markets that Kate will be arriving in a locked carriage that only the king has the key to. Less than an hour after that, the woman Stiles buys milk from insists that Kate will arrive tied in silks from throat to ankles to stop her from gouging out her captor's eyes. The following morning Mrs Mahealani insists she heard from a reliable source that Kate will arrive in a de-spiked iron maiden, her neck, wrists and ankles bound in chains.

But when Kate arrives it's not encaged, or under heavy guard, or any way that any of them could have expected. Because the King's crazy sister isn't crazy like everyone assumed. She's not even wild-spirited. Instead is meek and quiet and very, very beautiful.

'I do not understand,' whispers Stiles to Scott as the pair of them openly stare across the square. Most of the town has gathered to catch a glimpse of Kate as if she's some rare, exotic bird. 'Isn't she supposed to be mad?'

Scott shakes his head, although his eyes track Kate, stepping down from the carriage, white mourning dress whipping in the wind. 'Allison says it's all stories, that she shut herself away after her father died and has been in mourning ever since. She is not crazy.'

'Huh,' says Stiles, mulling that over. 'That Is a disappointment.'

And it is, really. Because the thought of a mad woman darkening the town's doorstep was something keeping Stiles together, helping him forget Derek. And now that Kate isn't mad, isn't even abrasive, he feels torn. Torn, because he is not to know what it really was that made everyone start calling Kate the king's crazy sister, and because he knows it's highly unlikely he's ever going to find out.

There is another feast that night, not that the town can afford to keep throwing lavish festivities like this. The king and princesses sit at the head of the table in the town hall, all three dressed in white, and Stiles finds himself watching Kate all night, like it might give him some hint, some explanation for all the stories that anyone ever told. But there's not much he can make out from where he's sitting across the hall, past the endless talking and slurping and gulping. He is drawn in by her laugh, though, the white shock of teeth in her wide mouth and the crinkles in the corners of her eyes. There is something odd underneath her skin, something he cannot put his finger on, but something that is unnatural all the same. For as much as she seems sane and elegant and regal and all the things that make for royalty, she is also hollow.

There is an emptiness in Kate that Stiles sees when he spies into the looking glass in his bedroom. Kate is only grief, even through her smiles - especially through her smiles, perhaps, when the cracks are at their widest.

 

-

 

He leaves the hall that night with his head too full - full of pieces of a puzzle he is just beginning to fit together, and also probably full of the wine he kept sneaking when no one was looking. But Scott is at his side, mumbling drunkenly about Allison's fair face, and her bright smile, and her musical laugh, so Stiles is content to walk along at his friend's side and giggle at the fumbled words, and think of green eyes and dark hair and bare flesh and -

\- and either Stiles has completely lost his balance, or someone has grabbed him by the scruff and thrown him against a wall.

Stiles lets out a huff in protest, and then squints up at Derek, stunned.

'Derekk,' slurs Stiles. 'Whadder you doing?'

'Stiles?' asks Scott, and then comes tumbling around the corner, and stops dead, eyes wide. 'Is that - is that the werewolf?'

Derek's eyes flash blue. 'You told him?'

'Only him!' bleats Stiles, arms up in surrender. 'Only him, I swear. Please don't kill me!'

Derek growls, teeth elongating in his snarling mouth, but doesn't move, staring Stiles down. Eventually it's too much, and Stiles is glad it's too dark to catch him flushing.

'Cut it out!' he grinds, and struggles half-heartedly against Derek's hold. He knows he will not be able to get away if Derek doesn't want him to, but it's not going to stop Stiles protesting. 'I already paid back my favour! What do you want from me?'

'I want -' starts Derek, but there's a flurry of sound behind them and he stops short, glancing towards it.

There's a woman's laughter and heavy footsteps. Derek's blue wolf eyes flare, and he scents the air for a moment, sniffing loudly, his hands still tight around the collar of Stiles' shirt. And then he disappears: takes off into the shadows and melts away. A moment later Princess Kate walks around the corner, a guard flanking her.  
Stiles can only gape at Kate. She had excused herself, an hour or so before the feast broke up for the night, with the excuse that her travels had exhausted her. But here she is, bright and lively, and dressed in men's clothing.

'Princess Kate!' bellows Scott, hopelessly. 'I mean -' he bows, and Stiles follow suit, flailing as he goes.

'Your Highness,' says Stiles, 'we didn't mean to intrude -'

'We were only on our way home -' adds Scott.

'We've had quite a bit to drink -' says Stiles.

'NOT THAT WE ARE DRUNKARDS -' says Scott.

'Boys!' cries Kate, but she's grinning, and it's a real, very much amused smile. 'It is I who is at fault. I was trying to slip away unnoticed, and assumed this way would be free of stragglers. Not to worry.' She pauses, though, eyes on Stiles' face. 'You,' she says, curious. 'I saw you tonight, at the feast. You did not take your eyes off me once.' She brushes her hands down the front of her tunic and then places them on the swell of her hips. It is greatly distracting.

Stiles finds himself blushing again, but for very different reasons. 'My apologies, highness. I was just... curious.'

Kate's smile turns wicked then, as if the thought of her rumoured insanity is a joke to her. 'Is that so?' she says. 'And how do you find me, then?'

'Definitely not insane,' says Stiles, and then flinches at his own reply.

The princess looks somewhat amused. 'Well,' she quips, 'I suppose that makes me a work in progress.'

Stiles drops his gaze, uncertain how exactly he should reply.

'Tell me, then,' continues Kate. 'What is your name, boy who thinks me a work in progress?'

Stiles glances up again. 'Stiles Stilinski, highness. I'm the sheriff's son.'

Stiles swears a flicker of something ugly crosses Kate's face, but she covers it hastily with a calculating look. 'Stiles?' she says, her tone clearly feigning curiosity. 'That's quite an uncommon name. Is it foreign?'

'It is a nickname,' replies Stiles. 'My first name is definitely foreign, though. No one can pronounce it.'

'And I imagine that a name like yours makes you the only Stiles in all the kingdom?'

Stiles shakes his head. 'I couldn't say, but perhaps.'

She looks cold, then, down to her very bones, and Stiles feels so very small standing next to her, no matter the way he towers over her small frame. 'Well, Stiles Stilinski,' she says, and her words are all bite, 'get home safely. This town isn't a safe place to be in after sunset. Far too many creatures waiting in the dark.' And with that she's gone, her guard two steps behind her, into the enveloping night.

Stiles feels numb.

'What was that?' asks Scott, staring after the Princess.

'I don't know,' says Stiles, but all he can think of is Derek, waiting for him in the shadows of the forest.

 

-

 

A day slides by, and then two, and four, and there are two things Stiles knows for certain: that Kate is watching him, and, from further away, so is Derek.  
Kate catches his eye sometimes, finds ways of running into Stiles even as he attempts to avoid her. She doesn't often talk to him more than to say hello in passing, but there is something there, in her glance, in her tone of voice, that makes Stiles pause, and almost... almost frightens him. She is cryptic, which intrigues him, because it only makes the masterpiece of Kate Argent a very detailed work for Stiles to study. But it also makes him cautious, because her words are always weighted, always have a meaning behind that Stiles cannot always decipher.

Derek is the shadow over Stiles' shoulder. He never makes himself known like Kate, and never when Kate is around, either, but he is deft and darts away, so Stiles can only catch a glimpse. A flash of teeth here, blinking blue eyes there, the steady knowing of someone's eyes on his back. It puts Stiles on edge, and he hates that Derek will not die in his mind, will not give him ease to forget like he wants to.

It never stops, never wavers, and Stiles wanders through life with a lump in his throat, panic stuck high in his chest and threatening to spill free at any moment. He doesn't like that, because it feels like every eye is on him whenever he walks in a room, like the townsfolk are whispering rumours about him behind his back.

Likely, they are. Likely, someone has noticed the way Kate's attention seems to narrow in on Stiles more often than not.

And then one day, Princess Allison calls for him.

Scott is bent double, hands braced on knees, and puffing, breathless, even as the words come out. 'Allison wants to meet you,' he wheezes, and Stiles' blood freezes over.

If Allison wants to meet him, then she has probably spotted Kate and Stiles staring at one another and wants to know what exactly is happening between them. Stiles cannot answer, doesn't know exactly why Kate has grown this strange obsession with him, and so he feels ill as soon as Scott says anything. 'Me?' he croaks. 'Why would she want to meet me? I'm not anyone.'

Scott glances up, frowning, his mouth open as he continues sucking in great gulps of air. 'Because you're my best friend -' gasp '- and it's been a solid fortnight and she -' gasp '- still hasn't met you in person.' He swallows thickly and then stands to put a hand on Stiles' shoulder. 'She wants to meet you,' he says again, smiling broadly. 'She's disappointed she hasn't yet.'

Stiles would like very much not to go to see the Princess. He would like not to be questioned, and not to be studied like some rare specimen and then pulled apart for more answers. But Scott looks at him with so much fondness, so much expectation, so much excitement, and Stiles knows he must do this, at least for his friend.

'Fine,' he says, 'let me put my boots on and I'll come.'

Scott's face breaks out into a wide, wide grin, and he hugs Stiles tight before bounding towards the front door. He waits there, like a puppy dog waiting to be let out by its owner, tail wagging and tongue lolling and eyes bright, and yipping excitedly. 'You will love her, Stiles,' he babbles. 'She's everything you'd ever expect a princess to be, and so much more! She's so smart, and pretty, and she always knows the right thing to say, and she can ride horses, and she thinks my job is _noble_.'

'Scott,' says Stiles, 'you're the apprentice apothecary.'

'NOBLE, STILES. SHE CALLED ME NOBLE.'

'Alright, calm down.'

Perhaps it's the countless stories Stiles' mother used to tell him as a child, but Stiles had expected a princess to be a flowery, ruffled sort of creature that gives favours to brave men and looks elegant at all times. He pictured a princess to be very beautiful, and very regal, and to do things like swoon at the sight of blood. And Allison is all of those things, perhaps, when she's in the citadel, surrounded by lady's maids, and meeting travelling royalty, and sitting at her father's side, but when Stiles meets the Princess she is none of them at all.

Scott leads Stiles to a path that heads out past the town and towards the wolfsbane wall. There's a clearing in the forest, there, a long, green stretch of grassland that Scott and Stiles used to rough house in when they were boys. When they break through the trees, however, the area has been made into a makeshift training ground, and Princess Allison is practicing her aim with a bow and arrow.

She's a very good shot.

To Stiles' left, Scott waves towards Lydia, who has perched herself on a blanket on the long grass under the shade of a tree. She's surrounded by far too much food for two, or even four, people. She is currently picking chicken off a carcass with delicate fingers. She nods to Scott in reply, and then turns back to watch the Princess nock another arrow. Scott takes Lydia's nod as cue to join her, and pads off towards the blanket. Stiles would usually follow: up until recently he would have fallen over himself at the opportunity to be standing anywhere near Lydia, let alone sitting on the same blanket. Instead he pauses, watching Allison line up the next shot. From where he's standing he can only see her profile, but her face is closed off, focussed and deeply determined. She breathes, a slow pull in and out, and then lets the arrow fly. It is a blurred slash through the air, and then it buries itself in the target.

'Wow,' Stiles breathes.

The princess turns then, and on seeing Stiles her face breaks open wide with a smile that matches Scott's whenever he talks about her. 'Lydia!' she calls, joyfully. 'The boys are here!'

From her seat under the tree, Lydia hums in agreement. Scott is back on his feet, having hardly sat for more than a moment, and bounds across to meet Stiles and Allison.

'Alli - I mean, Your Highness,' says Scott, hurriedly backpedalling (although Allison only smiles at his fumble), 'this is Stiles Stilinski, the sheriff's son, and my best friend.'

'Stiles,' says the Princess, and offers her hand to Stiles.

Stiles stoops to kiss her knuckles. 'Your Highness,' he replies, and when he looks up again there's a look in Allison's eyes that's hauntingly similar to Kate.

Stiles' stomach drops.

'I've heard so much about you,' says the Princess. 'Scott talks about you often.'

'Often!' calls Lydia from across the clearing.

'Hopefully not all bad,' says Stiles.

'Mostly!' cries Lydia. 'Now come and eat!'

Allison turns to Stiles, bright smile on her face. 'Will you join us?' she asks. 'I would so like to get to know you better, and I'm sure we have plenty to talk about. Like my aunt's interest in you, for example?'

Stiles feels himself pale, but nods, and lets Allison loop her arm through his, direct them to the meal laid out.

'My aunt is very fond of you, I think,' says the Princess, some ten minutes later. The four of them are stretched out on the blanket under the shade. Lydia, dressed top to toe in bright blue, is braiding her hair, appearing, for the most part, uninterested in the conversation. Next to her is Scott and Allison, the pair of them leaning against one another in an intimate fashion. Allison's white skirt is tucked delicately underneath her legs so only the toes of her boots are showing, and Scott is leaning back behind her, his shoulder nudging hers. Stiles is sitting with his legs in the sun, but he curls them under him when Allison speaks.

Lydia titters. 'Fond? It is practically indecent.'

Allison shoots Lydia a dangerous glance, but when she turns back to Stiles she's smiling. 'She calls you curious. Says there's more behind your eyes than what everyone expects.'

'I could say the same about her,' says Stiles before he can think. The reaction is not what he expected, though.

Allison frowns, and she shifts so that Scott stops to look at her. 'You've been listening to rumours,' she says quietly. 'I wouldn't blame you; most people do.'

'No,' says Stiles, and turns about in his seat to face the princess. 'I mean, yes, initially, but that's not what I -' He pauses, searching for words. 'Take you, for example,' he lands on, and Allison's eyebrows rise, intrigued. 'You are very like Princess Kate, if I may, Your Highness. Because you're not just a princess. You're a fierce archer, too. I could tell you now that I wouldn't ever want to face you on a battle field.'

'And you never shall,' replies Allison, softening. 'But flattery won't win me over. What of my aunt?'

Stiles shakes his head. 'Princess Kate is a great beauty, and much beloved woman by this town, now that we've had the chance to get to know her. But she's like... like lightening, highness. And she keeps striking me for some reason, and that is - might I be so bold to call her terrifying?'

A grin splits across Allison's face, and Stiles sighs, because the interrogation is over, and he appears to have passed the test. 'You might,' she says. 'And you are not wrong. The women of my family have always had the reputation of being particularly strong-willed. My father used to tell me that my mother was…'

But the Princess trails off then, her face falling. Stiles knows that ache, remembers how badly it burned at first, how it still ebbs behind his rib cage when something reminds him so badly of his own mother.

There's a beat, the gathering falling silent in an awkward pause, but then Allison's resolve returns, and the mask is slid back into place like she was never heartbroken.

 

-

 

Stiles forms an odd bond with Allison as the days pass on. Allison does not discuss her mother - will discuss anything else, in fact - and Stiles, when she wants his company, sits by her, happy to help her dull the grief with chatter. Over time he finds himself quite close with the princess, something which Scott is apparently ecstatic about.

It does not ease the buzz of Kate in his ear, the glances he sends over his shoulder in the search of Derek.

Oh, Derek. The ever elusive werewolf! He is never there when Stiles wishes him, and always when Stiles doesn't need the fright he always receives. And as the days turn swiftly into weeks, and then a month, and two, and three looms over, Derek's presence is still drilling holes in the back of Stiles' head. Stiles stops trying to avoid him, and instead finds himself, without realising, searching for a hint of the werewolf.

It takes time, but eventually, one day, he gets what he's hoping for. Of course, it's not the time or the place that Stiles wishes to be interrupted by a werewolf when he's actually interrupted by one. And it is less like interrupting and more like accosting, as well, which is just lovely.

Stiles has just left the market for home with enough food for himself and his father for the next few weeks piled high in his arms. It's mid morning, and Stiles has a big afternoon of preparing for the coming winter solstice feast. The ground is slippery with sleet and the air is startlingly cold, so Stiles' breath pours out of him as fog whenever he breathes out.

He is rounding a corner on the path towards his house where the trees are a little thicker and the houses are fewer and farther between when he treads unsteadily on slippery ice and loses his balance. Suddenly his feet are sliding out from under him, and Stiles flails, arms windmilling wildly. His packages of food go flying, flung about the place. Stiles is less than a second from hitting the ground, hard, when a dark blur comes from between the trees and all but throws Stiles up against a tree trunk.

Stiles' head hits a low hanging branch with a startling crack, and then he stares up at his saviour, winded.

'Derek,' he croaks.

Derek's has his grip fastened to Stiles' winter cloak and is standing far, far too close for Stiles to feel comfortable with this situation. He's frowning, like he's regretting the decision to save Stiles, and then, after a long moment of awkwardly staring at one another, Stiles' heartbeat racing, he says, 'Are you alright?'  
Stiles might be seeing double. Maybe. He definitely feels a little dizzy. 'Ouch?' is all he replies with.

'Can you stand by yourself?' asks Derek.

'Yes,' says Stiles, although he is not sure.

Derek growls. 'You are lying again.'

'Oh, because I make such a habit of it!' scoffs Stiles. 'I mean to say I think so. Will you let me go, please?'

Derek's face scrunches, like he's not sure he is happy with the idea of letting Stiles escape. He steps back, though, and then peels his fingers free until Stiles is carrying his own weight.

And then Stiles' knees buckle. Stiles clings for dear life to the branch that tried to burst open his skull a moment earlier, swearing loudly. Derek snorts, but leans forward to grip Stiles' other shoulder.

'Take a moment,' says Derek. 'You hit your head hard.'

Stiles gapes at him. 'If you know that, why did you ask if I was -'

'Just do not move,' snaps Derek, his eyes flashing blue. Stiles' mouth clicks shut, his heart thudding.

Derek is a werewolf. Derek is capable of ripping Stiles' spine out through his kneecaps. Stiles is going to die.

Instead Derek makes towards Stiles' packages of food, and busies himself with gathering them into one arm. Stiles watches, eyes wide in confusion, as Derek gathers every sodden item, every half-frozen loaf of bread, until two weeks of food are loaded up.

'What are you doing?' asks Stiles, wary.

'Helping you walk home, since you cannot do it yourself,' replies Derek, and then snakes an arm around Stiles' shoulders. 'Lean on me for support,' he instructs gruffly.

Stiles isn't sure what at all to do with this.

They reach Stiles' house after too long, and Stiles breaks away, muttering, 'I'm not some damsel,' even as he does.

'You are injured,' replies Derek, and Stiles pauses, because Derek wasn't supposed to hear him.

'What are you doing here?' he demands, and then makes for the food. Derek passes it off, his eyebrows furrowing. Stiles leaves him waiting outside the door. He takes a minute to dump the packages on the table, press his fingers gingerly at the egg forming on the back of his head, and then takes a deep, even breath so his heartbeat slows down. He turns then, to go back outside, but Derek is apparently quite happy enough to let himself in.

He stands at the entrance to the house and glares at Stiles.

'Don't walk away from me,' he says. Stiles opens his mouth to talk, but Derek cuts him off. 'You've hit your head, and if you were to fall again I might not be able to catch you in time.'

'Damsel!' snaps Stiles. 'I'm not some dainty woman who will swoon on cue.'

'Would you sit, then?' says Derek, and Stiles wants to throw him out of his house in a screaming fit. He sits, though, in a chair at the dining table, and glares up at his saviour.

'You didn't answer my question,' he says.

'What question?' growls Derek, arms folded.

Stiles heaves a put upon sigh. 'What are you doing here?' he presses, and one hand flits to his bruised head automatically.

Derek will not meet his eye.

There is a long pause where nothing happens. Stiles sits, waiting for Derek to answer him, and Derek looks guiltier and guiltier as time passes. Finally, he looks up, and his expression is twisted, as if he's being pulled in two different directions.

'I should not be here,' he says finally. 'If the Queen were to find out -'

'What queen?' Stiles presses.

'The Queen of the Forest,' says Derek, as if it's obvious. 'She's the mother of everything, the very heart of the forest. She's my lover.'

'There's no queen of this kingdom,' forces Stiles, flinging an arm out. 'There's just the King, and his daughter, and his crazy sister - and they haven't been in the citadel running the place since Chris' wife was -'

But he pauses, because Derek's face is a mask of horror.

'What?' bleats Stiles. 'What's wrong?'

Derek is shaking, his gaze darting away, out towards the snow. He grips the door frame so hard that Stiles can hear it crack under the pressure.

'Derek?' he breathes.

Derek looks up, spooked. 'I cannot stay,' he says, and then he stumbles forward and grabs at Stiles' fingers, presses them between his hands. 'I am so sorry for what I did to you. If I could take it back, I would not wish to, but I will understand if you do. So I will go away. You will never see me again.'

'What?' cries Stiles. 'Derek, what's going on?'

'I have to leave now,' says Derek. 'Stay safe - and do not trust the King's sister.'

And then he's off in a flurry of white, the front door left hanging open. Stiles presses his hands to his sore head.

 

-

 

The beginning of the end blossoms with the early days of spring.

Stiles has spent days lazing about, avoiding the cold and slush and the royal family as a collective. But he's woken early one morning, before the sun has even risen, to an urgent knock at the door, and all his energy comes back to him in a rush. He's half way out of bed when he hears his father's footsteps clattering along the hallway, and he pauses, listening to the sound of the door opening, and a male voice speak.

'It's time. They've found us.'

'Come in,' says Stiles' father. 'I'll wake the boy. I trust Princess Kate has other engagements, Your Majesty?'

Stiles' heart is in his throat all of a sudden, and he clutches the sheets, straining to hear the next words.

'She’s gone,' says the King, because that's who it is, it cannot be anyone else. 'She has her own ways; I let her be.'

'Of course, sire,' replies Stiles' father, and then there are more footsteps, and Stiles' bedroom door swings open. His father is holding a lit candle, dressed in his bed clothes. He doesn't question Stiles' wakefulness, just takes another step inside and speaks. 'Stiles,' he says, his voice hushed, 'get dressed warmly, and quick. I have a job for you.'

Stiles clambers to get his clothing on as fast as he can. He's just getting his heavy sheepskin tunic on when his father calls, and he stumbles out of his room and into the main room, one shoe on and the other off.

'I'm coming as fast as I -' starts Stiles hopping on one foot so he can wedge the other shoe on, but then he stops, staring. Because the King and Princess are sitting at his table, and they are both dressed in dark leather, and both have an arsenal of weapons spread out around them. The King is sharpening a sword with a whet stone. Allison is testing the string on her bow, and when she looks up at Stiles the mask, the princess mask that's all fluttering eyelashes and faint blushes and bashful smiles is gone, and it is just a hard, cold look that's left.

'Stiles,' says the sheriff, and Stiles drops his foot, his attention shifting. The sheriff is still undressed, but he looks as if he is prepared for the worst. 'The King and his daughter need somewhere to hide for a while. Do you know of somewhere safe to take them?'

Stiles takes a moment to glance between his father and the Princess. He's not quite sure what is going on, even wide awake as he is, but he knows he doesn't particularly like it. 'How long?' he asks the room at large, going through a list of possible hide outs in his head.

'A few hours,' says the King, face stern. 'Maybe more. I'm not sure.'

'Stiles,' presses his father, 'is there somewhere?'

'We could go to the archery field,' suggests the Princess.

Stiles shakes his head. 'No, the path is wide and the area is too open. If you need to hide, you need to go someone that's hard to spot, and with enough coverage to -'

It comes to him. It comes in a flash, and he knows it's the best place to hide, even if it is outdoors, in the cold.

'I know a place,' he says. 'It's nearly an hour's walk into the forest, but no one should find us there.'

'Stiles?' questions his father, tone warning.

'I'll take them to the orchard,' explains Stiles. 'You can see the road in and out of town from there. We'll be able to see if anyone is coming.'

The sheriff beams.

 

-

 

Stiles feels underqualified to be leading royalty into the forest like he is. He feels as if he should be wearing armour and a sword and be tall and broad-shouldered, with thick muscles and a deep, clamouring voice. Instead he is small and pale and very cold, with only his axe for protection and heavy winter clothes to protect him. His cloak keeps snagging on trees they walk past, and he feels unsteady on his feet. But the King and Princess follow him obediently, their weapons at the ready, without a word.

Eventually they reach the orchard, and the King pauses, glancing around at the evenly-spaced trees.

'I've been here before,' he says, quietly.

'It's full of fruit trees,' says Stiles, hugging himself for warmth. It's still dark, and he is stunned that he managed to find his way here all in one piece. 'We're not sure how it got here, but every year the trees are bursting with fruit.'

'Are we safe here?' asks the Princess. She's looking at her father, not Stiles.

'Safe enough,' is the King's reply.

'Good,' says Stiles. 'Because I have questions, if it pleases Your Majesty.'

They set up the rough semblance of camp beneath the empty apple trees. The King won't have a fire lit, just in case the smoke gives them away, so the three of them huddle together in a tight gang, waiting for the sun to rise. Stiles offers to climb to the top of a tree occasionally to look out, but he's told to hold on until the sun is out and there is light to see by.

It is there, sitting with his cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders and Allison sitting pressed shoulder to knee next to him that Stiles speaks up finally, the first of his million questions slipping free.

'Who are you hiding from?' he asks, because it seems obvious enough now that the King has been in his little town for reasons other than to grieve the death of his wife. For a moment the King only frowns, summing Stiles up with just a glance, but then he settles, even with narrowed eyes.

'What do you know about the wolfsbane wall?' is the King's reply. He stares down Stiles, still judging, but it cannot be said that Stiles doesn't do his reading.

'King Gerard had it put up, years and years before I was born,' says Stiles. 'After his wife died. It's to protect the kingdom from the magical. It's poison to werewolves. It stops them from climbing over.'

'Correct,' says the King. 'You know your history.'

Stiles nods.

'The problem with a wall covered in wolfsbane,' continues the King, 'is that the plant needs to be treated carefully. It is the same as any plant. Without water, without sunlight, it will die.'

'And when it did, a werewolf climbed over the wall,' says Stiles, piecing it together.

'A very powerful werewolf,' adds the King. 'An Alpha werewolf. The leader of a werewolf pack. And this one had gone rogue. He snuck his pack - his niece - and another pack who had promised to help him, over the wall and into the depths of the castle. They ambushed us from the inside.'

Stiles' mind ticks over. 'But if you've left, that must mean they have control.'

Princess Allison is the one to nod this time, and share more information. 'The castle is old. There are hidden passages even the werewolves didn't know about. My mother, she died showing me the escape route in my bedroom. I found father, we gathered as many men as we could in the time we had, and fled before they could kill us too.'

'The subjects of my kingdom are loyal to me,' snarls the King. 'They will not give their leader away to the new werewolf king. But I could not trust that loyalty with my life, not when my daughter's is also on the line. But this town is hidden in the depths of the forest. The people here are the last to know when a king is overthrown, when an army is defeated. Even though the werewolf king called for men as far as here, news of my being overthrown can get lost along the way, does not make its intended mark. I thought - I _hoped_ \- that coming here would allow me to disappear in plain sight, give me some time to gather together to storm the castle and take my throne back.'

'But they've found you,' murmurs Stiles.

'It seems so,' says the King. 'I just hope for your sake, and your father's, that if they find us they're too focussed on punishing me and mine to punish those loyal to me.'

'But why?' presses Stiles. 'Why is this werewolf king so determined to destroy you when you've already been thrown out of the castle and your title has been taken?'

'Revenge,' says Princess Allison.

'The werewolf king's name is Peter Hale,' says the King, and his voice turns bitter, hopeless. 'My sister killed his family.'

Stiles knows this story. Knows it far too well.

'The family lived in this town,' says the King, resigned. He takes a moment to settle himself, and then looks as if he's in it for the long haul. Stiles presses his stinging cold fingers between his thighs in the hopes of a little warmth, but listens.

'I don't know how long the Hales had been here, but it was long enough that they had developed a history with your town. They lived on the outskirts, though, and kept to themselves, for their own safety.'

'Because of the laws?' breathes Stiles.

The King nods. 'You have to understand, Stiles, their case is a rare example of werewolves forming a pack in such a way that makes them... docile. It happens sometimes, though, that werewolves can live amongst humans without the danger of violence. I follow a code, boy, and if a werewolf does not draw blood, then he is not a threat.'

Allison stiffens at those last words, but her face is carefully blank, even as she watches her feet.

The King shoots her a momentary glance, and he looks torn, and disappointed. 'Not everyone shares my beliefs. Some - _most_ \- of my family see werewolves like rabid dogs. They need putting down for their own good.'

'Princess Kate didn't agree with you,' says Stiles, 'did she?'

The King frowns, and for a moment he looks so completely lost that Stiles feels like he should look away, as if he is interrupting something too painful to disturb. But the King speaks again, and while he is clearly not happy, and he is not looking at Stiles, it is clear enough that he's speaking to him. 'She was hurt when my father died. It destroyed her, to watch him ripped apart by a monster like that. She wanted to continue his legacy. And I think - I know - it sent her mad.'

Allison's gaze snaps up at that. 'She's not crazy,' she presses, mouth tight.

'No,' insists the King. He takes his daughter's hand and shoots her a sad smile. 'But she's broken, child. She never let you see because she loves you far too much, I fear, but that does not stop it from being true. When your grandfather died, Kate's soul died with him.'

There's a sound beyond the trees then, and the story telling pauses so Stiles can climb a tree and look out towards the road, while the King and Princess spread out, their weapons at the ready. The sun is rising now, and is just high enough that Stiles can see the passing of men on horses towards the town. There is an awful lot of soldiers on the road.

After a tense minute the King announces the coast clear, and Stiles shimmies down to settle once again at the camp. Allison announces she's decided to take watch, although mostly she looks as if she is uninterested in hearing her aunt's reputation being spoiled. She disappears into the shadows, her footsteps silent.

'I lost Kate for several years after my father died,' says the King, eventually. He's rifling through a bag and takes out bread and cheese and dried meat to share between the two of them. He leaves more in his bag for Allison. 'I'm a great hunter, but I couldn't track her, and all of the places I had sent word of her disappearance to had no answer of her whereabouts. I started to believe that she had killed herself, in her misery, and that I would never find her. But then she arrived at my castle one day, like a wild creature, like her spirit was possessed. She wasn't Kate anymore, but I don't know what she was. She was powerful, and dangerous, and she seemed old and wise beyond her years.'

'What happened to her?' asks Stiles around a bite of bread.

The King shakes his head, and pulls a dagger out of his boot. He uses it to cut the wedge of cheese into slices. 'I don't know. I've never known. I couldn't control her anymore, and she wouldn't listen to my pleas, or talk about what had happened when she disappeared. It was only after Hale attacked, killed my wife and near killed me too, that I found out.'

The King's voice is tight and controlled as she continues to speak, and Stiles knows that this is too sore, but he also knows that he has to know. He drops his gaze to his knees out of respect, and lets the King continue, in a quiet drone, like he's memorised a script but the meaning have been leached out.

'I woke up one night, months ago now, to a bloodbath in my castle. My men had been slaughtered, my Queen was disappeared, and there was a battle raging in the halls. I found my wife a bloody mess in Allison's chamber, caught by the Alpha as she helped our daughter escape. He taunted me as he bled my wife dry, wove a story as if he had all the time in the world, and my Victoria wasn't...'

He pauses, breath catching. Stiles feels his heart jump.

'Peter likes to hear himself talk. He's a showman, a show off. He had his claws in my wife's throat, his fangs in her shoulder, and she still talked as if it was a casual conversation and we were old friends. He told me about his family, and about how Kate came to his town and burned his home to the ground, killing all inside it. He said he'd managed to get his niece out, and he was badly burned, but the others all perished. Some of them were humans. Some were children.' The waver in his voice quiets, then, and his voice turns bitter, spitting words in his anger. 'And all he wanted was to do to Kate what she had done to him, to destroy my family as revenge. I had to watch my wife die for some monster's vendetta.'

Stiles' mind boggles. Because he can remember that fire, nearly ten years ago now, and the witch hunt for the arsonist, and the mad search for the missing child whose body was never found. He can remember his mother crying when she'd heard the news, and if he thinks back hard enough, he can remember seeing the two remaining Hales leaving town when nothing was resolved, never to be seen or heard of again.

'I'm sorry,' he whispers, but he's not sure who it's for.

 

-

 

Stiles goes back to keeping eye from the tree tops after that. He feels numb all over, now that he knows what Kate did, can remember the fallout from his childhood. Derek's last words to him, months back, echo in the back of his head, 'Do not trust the King's sister,' like a litany.

The soldiers come, and they keep coming, and Stiles begins to wonder, as the day shifts towards evening, if they are going to be forced to find shelter for the night. It's too cold to camp in the middle of the forest, and they don't really have the right equipment to be sleeping outdoors as it is.

He's brainstorming desperately, trying to come up with anywhere warmer than this that is just as safe, when Allison comes blundering through the trees with little concern to the amount of noise she's making.

'It's safe, Father,' she calls to the King, who is standing ten feet from Stiles' tree. 'Scott's come to take us home.'

Stiles looks towards the ground as Scott wanders out into the clearing, breathless as usual. 'Your Majesty,' he wheezes, and then bows low. 'The Sheriff has sent me to bring you home.'

'But the soldiers!' Stiles calls down. 'They've not left.'

'No,' says Scott. 'They plan to stay the night at least before they leave for the citadel. But there are horses ready and enough food to get you as far as the next village past the wolfsbane wall.'

'The wall?' says Allison, and Stiles decides that now is about the time to descend to join the others.

'The sheriff said it would be safer,' says Scott, looking as though he's stunned the Princess didn't know this. 'Taking refuge in another kingdom until it's safe enough to return.'

The King frowns. 'I'm not sure I am happy with the decision, but he's right. The further we are from harm, the safer. And I do not want to put my people in any more danger than I already have.'

'But I don't want to go,' hisses Allison, and catches her father's elbow. 'Please, Father,' she begs, and Stiles pauses, half way down the tree.

'We don't have a choice anymore,' says the King, gentle. 'I'm sorry, child, but we have to go.'

'But Scott -'

'It's okay,' says Scott, oddly calm. 'I can wait.'

There's pause, and oh hell, thinks Stiles, Allison has fallen for Scott. Princess Allison Argent, first in line for the throne, has fallen for Scott McCall, peasant and apprentice apothecary. Scott's dream has come true. Scott has won the girl.

'I cannot make you wait for me,' says Allison, quiet. 'I'm not going to do that.'

'You don't have to,' comes Scott's reply, sure and certain, 'Because I know we are going to be together.'

'Allison,' warns the King.

Allison is crying. Stiles cannot see it, because he has his arms wrapped around a tree trunk and his legs hitched over a branch, but he can hear it, the quiet sniffing, the heavy sigh. His heart feels heavy for her, and if he weren't clinging to a tree for dear life he might offer her a shoulder to cry on, because she would like that. He's good at letting her not talk about the parts that hurt the most.

'Stiles!' calls the King, 'Are you coming?'

'On my way, sire,' replies Stiles, and begins scaling the tree again.

'I don't want to go either,' says the King. 'I know your heart is here, as much as I'm not sure I like this pairing you've made yourself. And this place, it makes me think of Kate.'

'The orchard?' says Allison, distracted. 'It looks like the one in the tapestry she made for me. The one where she'd lost her heart to a magical man and was Queen of the forest.'

Stiles' fingers slip on the branch and he comes crashing to the ground. But he cannot feel when he lands, doesn't cry out in pain or even surprise. Doesn't see his company gather around him, concerned.

Because Kate is the Queen of the forest.

Kate is Derek's lover.

 

-

 

It is like someone has lit a fire in his belly. It started as a spark, small and warm and glowing, but just the right wind has caught it, and just the right tinder has made it swell, and the glowing spark has become something blinding, with fingers that curl around his heart and squeeze and squeeze. His insides are burning down, and engorged with smoke, and it is hard to breathe with the way that it burns. Stiles is furious and confused and angry and lost and it's all about Derek, because he can see Derek's face and Derek's green eyes and Derek's dark hair and he can remember Derek's warm fingers and Derek's hard body and all of Derek's frame, shaking with exertion. It occurs to Stiles distantly that this madness he has suddenly fallen into is most probably jealousy. But even as he falls deeper into it he also realises that even with tooth and claw he could not crawl out of it if he tried.

He is lost. He is not Derek's, and Derek will not see him again. Because Derek is Kate's. Mad Princess Kate's play thing, her chew toy werewolf who probably doesn't even know that Kate is using him, hates everything that makes Derek what he is. And all he wants, right then and there, is to see Derek. To see him once more, and maybe he was going to forget what happened between them that night, but he knows he does not want to, and he cannot help himself to recall every living, breathing second of it.

He cannot recall the trek back home, although he has flashes of Scott's arm around his shoulders, and the King's arm around his waist, Princess Allison's concerned glance constantly directed towards him. He remembers walking through his front door, and his father hurrying the King and Princess away, and then Stiles stumbling blindly to his bed. He remembers throwing the bed clothes over his head.

Hours later, curled on his side into the mattress, he is wide awake.

Stiles is swallowed whole. He is consumed, completely, the fire blazing, and he is burning down so violently that he feels compelled to beat his pillows and kick his legs and scream himself hoarse. He doesn't, though, just lies there, wallowing and growing more and more bitter even as he does.

He gets very little sleep, that night. His father does not disturb him, nor Scott, nor anyone else, and he lies fully clothed in bed, and ignores the way his body responds when he thinks about Derek, and Derek's bare skin, and Derek pressed against him.

And then it is too much all together, and Stiles decides he cannot let this slip by him anymore. He gets up from his bed, and to the door, and before he thinks any more about the decision he's about to make, he leaves, into the night.

He's half way to the path to the orchard when one of Peter's guards stops him in the middle of the road. Stiles must look a state, his eyes wide, his trousers uncomfortably tight, his hair and clothing ruffled. But the guard looks him up and down, his torch high, and says, 'Where are your boots, boy?'

Stiles looks down. His feet a bare. The cold is starting to burn on the soles of his feet, but he cannot care for that.

'Left behind,' he replies absently. 'I have to go. Can I go now?'

'Where are you headed?' asks the guard.

'Home,' lies Stiles. He points up the road, towards Scott's house. 'Just up there, around the bend.'

The guard glances in the direction of Stiles' pointed finger, and then back at Stiles, grinning. 'You've been off to see a girl, then?' he asks. 'What'd you leave your shoes behind for?'

'Nothing else for her to remember me by,' lies Stiles again.

The guard seems pleased enough at that. 'Well, don't go catching frost bite; you'll lose all your toes if you're not careful.'

'Thank you,' says Stiles. 'Goodnight.'

'G'night,' says the guard, and lets Stiles pass.

His feet are numb after another twenty minutes of walking, and the path to the orchard is almost impossible to find in the middle of the night. But Stiles clambers on, determined that if he can find the place, somehow he'll be able to find Derek too, and he can tell Derek all about Kate and Derek will be his, then.

Still, the further he walks, the colder he gets. It travels up his body, from his toes, to his feet, to his ankles, and then slides up past his knees, around his middle, down his arms and legs. Before too long he is shaking with cold, and his bitter jealousy has snap-frozen, leaving him listless and exhausted. He finds himself sliding down a tree trunk to sit, crouched, at the fork of its roots.

He doesn’t mean to, but he drifts off to sleep, curled up tight, feet tucked into the bottom of his warmest tunic.

 

-

 

He wakes with a shout, and for a moment he's not sure where he is. But then the bitter cold hits him like a shock, and he shouts again, for a whole other reason entirely.

'Stiles! Stiles, what are you doing? You'll freeze to death out here!'

Stiles looks up, and there he is, in his dark leathers and his frown, with his hand cupping Stiles' flushed face, fingers burning against the lobes of Stiles' ears. Derek. He found Stiles.

'I was looking for you,' whispers Stiles, and Derek is so close, kneeling in front of Stiles' grey feet.

'You've got no shoes on,' says Derek.

'I forgot them,' says Stiles. 'I was desperate. I had to see you. I -'

'Hush,' grunts Derek. 'I have to get you inside before your extremities all fall off.'

'My,' starts Stiles, and then begins to panic. 'My extremities? I don't want to lose my extremities! I need them to be extreme!'

He gets a snort for that, and then he's being swept up into the air, and it's the strangest thing that's ever happened to Stiles, but mostly it's also the most damsel-inducing thing that's ever happened to him, too.

'Not a damsel!' he cries.

'Not interested,' says Derek, and fusses around until he's got one arm behind Stiles' back and the other underneath Stiles' knees. And he carries Stiles like that, like a bride, all the way to a moss-drenched cottage in the middle of the forest that Stiles has never seen before.

And then inside it. Being carried like a bride.

Stiles isn't excited about the possibilities that suggests. Not at all.

The cottage is more of a hovel, if anything. It is a tumble down stone hut with a stove and a bed and a table and chairs, and a basin to wash in, and very little else. Derek puts Stiles down in a chair by the stove, which is lit and roaring, and then sets about heating water. Stiles watches him, huddling in his damp clothes.

'You really are an idiot to have gone searching for me in the middle of the night,' grumbles Derek after he puts the kettle on top of the stove. He wanders away, then, towards the bed, and strips it of blankets. He stands over Stiles, then, bedding a crumpled bundle in his arms. 'Take your clothes off.'

'What?' stutters Stiles. 'My clothes? I cannot - I don't want -'

'I need to dry out your clothes,' grunts Derek, and then lets the bundle fall. 'You cannot sit about in wet clothing; it won't help with the cold.' He leans forward then, and presses his hand against Stiles' forehead. 'You're going to catch a fever if we're not careful. Hurry, Stiles.'

And then he turns away again, to pour the warm water in a basin for Stiles' feet, and Stiles starts stripping clothes away, blushing to his navel.

He sits on a stool in nothing but three heavy blankets, his feet in a basin of warm water, and pines for Derek. He sits twitching and itchy and his cool skin warming and can only stare, mouth half open, at Derek. Derek, at the table, reading a book by lamp light. Derek, at the stove, pouring hot water into cups. Derek, adjusting Stiles' damp clothing at Stiles' feet.

'Stop that,' Derek says, once, when he goes to sip from his mug.

Stiles is half awake, wasn't even aware he was staring as much as he is, wasn't aware of how he's chewing at his mouth. He knows the want curled low in his belly, though. That's as clear as day.

'Stop what?' and it comes out husky.

Derek glances up, glaring darkly. 'Staring,' he says. 'Biting your lip, sucking it into your mouth like that. I can smell your arousal no matter where I stand in the house. If you don't want me to touch you, then you need to control yourself.'

Stiles looks down, cheeks burning. 'I'm sorry,' he murmurs. 'I'll just stop thinking about how you stole my virginity.'

Of course, saying it out loud is nothing like actually doing it. In fact, it's quite the opposite. Especially with Derek glaring at him like that.

'You did not mention that was your-'

'Yes,' cuts in Stiles, sharp, 'well, I didn't have much of a chance, did I?'

Derek pauses at that, his eyes wide. But then he's growling again, turning away like looking away from Stiles will win him the argument. 'I'm sorry, if that's what you want. It's not like I can take it back.' He slams his mug down on the table; it makes a heavy thud that shudders through the house.

Stiles huffs. 'I never said that I wanted to take it back, Derek. It's all I can think about.' And then he says, quiet, before he can backpedal and stop himself from becoming more of a fool, if that is even possible after the night he's had, 'You have no idea what you do to me.'

Derek's response is so quiet Stiles nearly doesn't catch it. It is there, in the slump of Derek's shoulders, in the hush of his tone. 'I might have some idea.'

Stiles feels too many things all at once to process. There is a lump in his throat, painful to talk around. But his chest is swooping and his feet are tingling, his sense of feeling coming back. He speaks again before he thinks, and he feels as if he's lost all control over the way it comes out, because it should be suspicious, or angry or something, but it is oddly broken instead. 'Derek,' he says, 'why did you stop looking for me? Do you not... not want me?'

Derek sighs. 'I told you,' he says. 'I cannot. The Queen has taken me as her lover and she's too dangerous to turn against. I don't know what she'd do.'

Stiles spends a moment wiggling his hands free, chews over the way of phrasing this so Derek will not run away again as he is want to do. 'I know who she is,' he says finally. 'Your Queen.' He looks up at Derek, whose face is closed off, shut down, possibly because he cannot bear to face it, but also possibly because he doesn't like the idea that Stiles knows. 'You should know,' he says, 'she's not who you think she is.'

'I know exactly who she is,' replies Derek, croaking. 'She's all I have left.'

'She is a werewolf hunter,' says Stiles. 'She kills your kind.'

'Thank you,' grinds Derek, 'I'm very aware of that.'

Stiles struggles for a moment, but then gets to his feet, even swaddled in blankets. The basin of water is abandoned behind him. 'So you know that she killed a family of werewolves from my town? And that now the surviving members have taken over the kingdom and are currently hunting her down?'

'That's impossible,' snaps Derek. 'I'm the only pack member that's left.'

Stiles already has his mouth open to argue back, but he stops at that, because that's not what he expected from Derek. 'You,' he says, 'what?'

Derek looks as if he's ready to tear a hole in something with his claws. He grits his teeth, frustrated, and stalks towards the bed, throws himself down heavily. 'My name is Derek Hale, Stiles. Kate burned my family's house down with my family inside so we could be together.'

Stiles heart is flying, it's beating so fast. His fingers scrabble to make sure the blankets stay firmly around his waist, and then he waddles over, sinks down next to Derek. 'No,' he says, 'she burned your house down because she's crazy and she hunts werewolves for sport. She wanted to hurt you, Derek. She probably wanted to kill you, too.'

'But she hasn't,' grits Derek. 'She doesn't.'

Stiles shoots him a glance. 'Doesn't she? And did you tell her about our little... what we did?'

Derek looks guilty enough to be sick.

'She knows,' says Stiles. 'She knows who I am and what we did together. That is why she came to town. That is why she kept such a close eye on me. She wants me out and you all to herself.'

Derek looks so lost. So lost and confused and angry, and his face is a mess, and his heart is clearly in pieces, and all Stiles wants to do is put his arm around Derek and hold him close.

'This isn't your fault,' says Stiles.

'It is all my fault,' replies Derek, voice dead.

Stiles sighs. 'Come here,' he says, and lets go of the blankets to open his arm out to Derek. Derek hesitates, eyeing Stiles cautiously, and he looks so much like he wants to, and so very much like he cannot. But Stiles can, and he does, he digs his fingers into the hair at the nape of Derek's neck and then tugs at Derek until he slumps forward, face mashed into the join of Stiles' neck and shoulder. Stiles shifts forward, just enough to ease the awkward angle, and then throws his other arm around Derek's waist, and holds on, even if Derek is rigid in Stiles' arms.

And then Derek breathes in, and Stiles is the one to go rigid this time, and Derek doesn't miss it for an instant.

'Tell me to stop,' he says against Stiles' throat.

'Never,' breathes Stiles.

'Please,' whispers Derek, his fingers skating up Stiles' other arm. He looks up at Stiles, then down at Stiles' mouth, and Stiles just really wants to close the space between them.

'Do you want me to say yes or no?' Stiles asks.

'Yes,' breathes Derek. 'No. I do not know. Kate will kill us.'

And, fuck, thinks Stiles, he doesn't know what Kate is capable of, and he doesn't care, not if it means Derek will give him everything, that Derek will be his. 'Let her try,' he groans, so close to Derek's mouth, breathing the same air as Derek. There's barely any space between them at all.

'Let me try what?'

Derek is on the other side of the room in an instant, looking guilty as sin, back pressed tight against stone. And she's there, standing in the doorway, like a rose bush grown over, like a gnarled willow tree, ancient and beautiful and terrible. If his mother was here she would say that Kate has a touch of the fey about her, her blonde hair wild and curling upwards, her green dress moving as if it has a life of its own. Her face is wide and smiling, lightning cracking in her teeth, her eyes open but unseeing.

And Stiles understands. Derek had called her mother of the forest. But she _is_ the forest: has, over time, become part of it, like when her soul died with her father she stole the forest's soul to put in its place.

'Princess Kate,' gasps Stiles, his heart hammering in his chest.

Kate smiles, wide, but turns towards Derek. 'Really, lover dear,' she says, voice full of mirth, 'Couldn't you have found yourself a nice, dull girl to fall for? One that understands when you tell them what it means to belong to someone else?'

Those last words are for Stiles and only Stiles. He sits up straight, glaring.

'I do not know what you see in him, honestly,' continues Kate, and wanders forward with an outreached hand. Her fingers are like vines, and they curl under Stiles' chin, grasping and ungrasping like an octopus' tentacle. 'He's so very... trying. He has no sense of timing, no idea how to speak to royalty. And he meddles in the business of others. Personally, I have no interest in a whip of a thing like this.' She pulls away, turns back to Derek. 'But then, I never did understand your taste in lovers. Still,' she heaves a sigh, 'I suppose I can't stop you from wanting whatever it is you want.' She pauses, just out of arm's reach of Derek. He flinches away.

'Wait,' she says, laughing. 'Yes, I can! Because I own you, Derek. Because you owe me.'

Derek glances away towards Stiles, then, and catches his eye. Stiles doesn't know what Kate means, but Derek doesn't speak.

Kate is laughing again. It sounds hollow, like ringing glass. 'But you haven't told him, Derek, have you?'

'Please,' chokes Derek.

Kate rests a hand on Derek's face, towers over him as he shrinks down into himself. 'Derek,' she croons, 'my love,' and then her face turns dark, her hair fizzes pin straight and her eyes flash milky, 'don't make me regret my decision to help you.' There is a beat, and then she's soft again, more human, and her blonde curls hang around her face and down her back, bouncing merrily. 'I love you,' she says, quiet, but loud enough that Stiles can hear, 'despite your shortcomings, that filthy curse. Do not make me regret what I've done for you, after all this time.'

Derek hangs his head. ‘I'm sorry, my Queen,’ he whispers, defeated.

The Queen of the Forest smiles, and it is wicked down to her very core. There is nothing in her that is good or forgiving. ‘That's better,’ she says. She waves a hand over her shoulder to Stiles, then, dismissive. ‘Now, take the boy back to his village,’ she continues, tone stern. ‘And let this be a warning to you, lover: if you see him again - and I will find out - I will kill him. I will kill him like I killed your family, and I will make you watch him burn alive.’

Stiles gasps. He cannot believe, could not even consider. The Queen is a monster, a demon creature, and she has her fingers wrapped around the pulse of Derek’s life, and is squeezing until he has nothing left. Derek, a werewolf, a magical creature that he thought a threat once, that he was terrified of for his life, is the pawn of this woman, this beast woman, and must do her bidding whether he wishes it or not.

She sweeps away then, towards the door and out, head held high and proud, and Stiles is stuck where he’s sitting, fingers caught in the blankets protecting his dignity, and cannot think, cannot act, cannot even speak.

Oddly, it is Derek who speaks instead.

‘My Queen –’ he begs, eyes swimming, ‘Kate - please.’

Kate turns on her heel at the door, eyes blazing. ‘Please what?’ she snaps. ‘Watch as you use me up for all my powers and spit me out again? I will not let you go after everything just because you think you've fallen in love with some child.’ She flings her arm out towards Stiles, and he finds he is the one to flinch this time. Kate only shakes her head, her decision made. ‘Take him home,’ she demands.’

‘Kate, please!’ cries Derek. ‘One night. Just one. I'll do anything.’

Kate snarls, an animal sound. ‘I don't want you to do anything, Derek, I want you to never see him again.’

‘And I won't!’ he begs. He dashes across the room and to her side and then flings himself at her feet, his hands scrabbling at her muddy shoes. He presses a kiss to the hem of her dress, gasping. ‘I'll never see him ever again, I swear to you, Kate. Just give me the night to say goodbye. You owe me that at least.’

Kate’s fingers crackle with energy, and she kicks at her lover werewolf, disgusted, so he falls backwards. ‘Owe you?! How dare you, you filthy excuse for a –’

‘Have I ever asked of anything Kate?’ cuts in Derek. He’s on his back, has pushed himself up to his elbows, and he does not move to stand, but he still begs his case all the same, small and pathetic as he is. ‘You asked me to love you, and I did. You asked me to leave with you, and I did that too. You begged me to stay, and I did that.’ Now he does roll forward, onto his knees, and he looks up to the Queen of the Forest with so much love, with so much wanting, that Stiles wants nothing more than to cry. ‘I ask this one thing,’ says Derek. ‘For my family, for their lives. For my forgiveness. One night.'

Kate pauses, eyes narrow. She transforms again, and she looks like a woman, like the Kate that climbed out of the carriage and surprised Stiles all those months ago, but she is still so powerful, so strong. She puts her hand on Derek’s head and he leans into the touch, and that’s when Stiles feels wetness on his face, dribbling off his chin. He wipes away his crying with his fingers, and this is it, he thinks. He’s never going to see Derek again, is he?

‘You have a deal, my love,’ says Kate, quiet.

Stiles cannot stop the cry that escapes him, but the picture before him is frozen: the Queen passing law over her humble, broken slave.

‘One night,’ she says, ‘to say goodbye to your boy, to spend your last moments with one another coiled up in your sin and your betrayal. But then your debt is repaid,  
and you never, never ask a favour of me again.’

‘Thank you,’ Derek breathes. He drops, slumps against the floor, hands over his face. And Stiles has had enough, cannot watch this anymore. He stumbles forward, off the bed, to Derek’s side, and throws his arm over Derek’s shoulder. The Queen is taking her leave, leaving them their final hours, but Stiles doesn’t look towards her, doesn’t want to see her when he doesn’t have the time to waste anymore. Stiles can barely breathe.

One night. They have one whole night. They can make it last.

 

-

 

There is birdsong beyond the window, and the first rays of sunlight are bleeding through the dark. Stiles spends a moment just staring, watching the light creep towards him and Derek, still curled together. It’s been minutes, maybe less, since the Queen’s depart. It feels like so much longer.

‘When did the sun rise?’ asks Stiles, wary.

‘Not long ago,’ says Derek, after a moment. He sits up, his face ruddy, and sniffs. ‘Just as Kate arrived, I think.’ And then he looks to Stiles, and spends countless moments studying Stiles’ face.

‘What is it?’ asks Stiles, barely a whisper.

Derek reaches for Stiles, and presses his palm against Stiles’ cheek. His thumb traces the corner of Stiles’ mouth. ‘I have one whole day and one whole night before I have to give you up forever. I’ll have to work fast to memorise every inch of you.’

Stiles flushes, and he spends a good moment fumbling restlessly with the blankets drawn around him. Derek shifts, a quiet, small move closer, and presses a kiss to Stiles’ mouth, chaste.

‘Let’s run away,’ murmurs Stiles. He lets himself fall forward until he is mouthing the line of Derek’s jaw, fingers pressed against the curve of Derek’s neck. ‘Let’s just go where she cannot ever find us.’ He sucks bruises into the underside of Derek’s chin and watches the skin heal itself almost instantly. He feels compelled to do it over and over again until the bruises stay, until Derek is stained with Stiles.

‘I am sorry,’ whispers Derek into Stiles’ hair. ‘I cannot.’ He curls one arm around Stiles’ waist and with the other tugs at Stiles’ fingers over the blankets. Stiles lets go, lets Derek guide his hand to the place over Derek’s heart. ‘I wish I could leave with you,’ he says, and leans in so their foreheads are pressed together. ‘I don’t want to be here with her anymore.’

‘Then why stay?’ begs Stiles. He catches Derek’s mouth with his own, opens up for Derek’s tongue. They kiss slowly at first, exploring and curious, but before long it becomes rushed and heady, and Stiles breaks away, gasping.

‘Because,’ says Derek, and purposely leans away. There’s blue bleeding into his eyes, and his voice is torn off, tight. ‘I am bound to her. She made me immortal, so I could never die, so my pack would never disappear. Even if I am the last one, there will still be me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ says Stiles, and finds himself shying away, even though he doesn’t want to. ‘You cannot die?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘I will live forever, and so will she, with the spirit of the forest inside of her. I am trapped here forever, but it was my choice, and I have to live with what I made for myself. I let myself fall for her, when I knew what she was capable of. I have to suffer those consequences.’ He is so close then, clinging to Stiles like he fears Stiles will fade away at any second. ‘I fear this is the last happiness I will ever have,’ he whispers.

It breaks Stiles’ heart to hear that. It makes him want to scream, to kill Kate in cold blood. He gets lost in the rush of heat that envelopes him, lets himself be carried away with hands and teeth and tongue. He peels away the layers of Derek’s clothes, and the blankets fall away, Derek reaching beneath.

Before too long they’ve fallen into synchronised rhythm, even as Derek bites down hard on Stiles’ bottom lip, even as Stiles sucks Derek’s tongue back into his mouth. Derek’s clothes are strewn away, and there are miles of skin, bristling under Stiles’ touch. 

At some point they make a struggling, blind effort to reach the bed, and then at another point after that there are Derek’s fingers, and then Derek inside of him. Stiles hisses at the stretch and burn, but Derek finds something there that has stars bursting behind his eyes. Stiles arches under Derek, and Derek hovers over him, and it’s so different to the last time, because Stiles know that this is all he wants, that this is all he could ever want ever again.

His release comes far too soon, but Derek rides him through his little death, and then Derek is coming apart above Stiles. His teeth elongate, and his eyes are startling, beautiful blue, and the noise he makes is more howl than anything human, and Stiles could watch it over and over again, wants to trace his fingers along the ridges of Derek’s wolf brow. It’s over in a flash, though, the werewolf gone, disappeared in Derek, and then Derek is collapsing on top of Stiles, pressing sloppy kisses along Stiles’ collar bone.

They lie in a tangled heap, the sweat on Stiles’ skin cooling to itch, Stiles’ breaths first hollow and fast and then slower and slower, until he’s come down enough to turn his face towards Derek, smiling.

Derek’s face is clouded over in thought. He shifts, curls around Stiles protectively, and then he says, ‘The lives that she took, she gave to me. I have all the time that they should have had, all their years, and all their futures, and those of the children the pack had yet to bare. She gave them to me so that I would follow her, even after all that she did, because if I did not the spell would be broken, and there would be nothing left but ashes.’

Stiles opens his mouth, shuts it again, and then it clicks, what Kate was saying. ‘That is what she meant when she said that she owned you.’

‘Yes,’ says Derek.

'But she was wrong,' continues Stiles, and then he sits up, so he can look down at Derek, can hold his eye. 'About the fire, I mean. Because there were survivors.'

Derek looks resigned, lets out a sigh. 'No, there weren't, Stiles. I would know.'

'Listen,' insists Stiles. 'The Queen is dead.'

Derek shakes his head. 

'Months ago - months, Derek, before I'd even met you - werewolves got over the wolfsbane wall. There was an Alpha and his niece and another pack and they took over the citadel, and ran the King and his daughter out. I spent almost all of yesterday up a tree in Kate's orchard, helping the King hide from them, because the Alpha wants revenge on Kate for killing his family.'

'That doesn't mean anything,' grumbles Derek. 'She hunts my kind like sport.'

'Yes,' says Stiles, 'but Derek, the Alpha's name was Hale. Peter Hale. Tell me that isn't a coincidence.'

Derek freezes, and he looks so small, so young, but then he shifts. His eyes are glowing, vibrant blue, and his nose becomes a snout, and his hands paws, and before Stiles' eyes Derek becomes a wolf, the wolf he saved from the bear trap, a snarling scared animal. It leaps from the bed in a scrabble of bed clothes, pillows tearing and feathers scattering. The wolf has burst through the front door and into the forest before Stiles can even clamber out of bed and collect his things from in front of the stove.

He jams his body into his newly-dried clothes, trousers and tunic shoved on but left untied, and takes off at a run, his feet still bare. 'Derek?' he shouts, and blunders forward, crashing through the undergrowth. His tunic catches on a branch, tears all the way to his elbow, and he feels blood well to the surface of the scratch on his skin, but he keeps running because he has to catch Derek.

'Derek?' he bellows. 'Derek?' His breathing is ragged, but he keeps yelling Derek's name.

And then Derek calls back.

It is a long howl, cutting through the trees, and the minute Stiles hears it he takes off in the direction of the sound. He knows, without even having to think about it that it's Derek, so he pushes himself to run, hard, towards the noise in the hopes he can catch the wolf before it gets away again. He hears more howling beyond, sounds from deeper in the forest, further towards the road to the citadel, but he ignores them, keeps pushing forward. His heart pounds heavy and fast in his ears, blood rushing, as he tears through the trees.

And then he finds the wolf, head reared towards the sky. It lets out another sharp howl, but it stops at Stiles' arrival, the sound falling dead.

In an instant the wolf is Derek again, gloriously naked, and he rushes to Stiles, arms outstretched. He holds tight to Stiles' tunic sleeves, looks him over, confused.

'Stiles,' he breathes, 'what are you doing?'

'You just ran!' yelps Stiles. 'You just -'

There is a howl in the distance. Derek's ears prick, and he turns towards the sound sharply. When he turns back to Stiles he is smiling, and it's the first time Stiles has ever seen him really smile, thinks Stiles. It is hopeful and joyful and relieved, and Derek looks so utterly, completely beautiful like that. He is breathtaking.

'Stiles,' he says, 'can you hear that? That is my family. That's Peter, my uncle, and Laura, my sister. They're alive.'

'I know,' replies Stiles, shaking his head. 'But I don't understand -'

'I have to see them,' cuts in Derek. 'I have to go them. They're waiting for me.'

Stiles fights hard against the pang in his chest. 'I,' he starts, but he doesn't have the right words, and they will not come to him. 'Oh,' he finishes, quietly.

Derek stares, eyes narrowed. But then he lifts a hand to Stiles' cheek. 'Come away with me,' he says.

Stiles glances up.

'We'll run away,' says Derek. 'I don't need Kate. I don't need her spell anymore, because I still have Peter and Laura. And then I'll have you, too.'

His heart swells, and Stiles lets the smile split across his face, wide. 'Of course!' he cries, and crushes his mouth to Derek's. 'Of course, we'll leave straight away.'

'Good,' breathes Derek, and pulls away. 'Then I have to go, I have to catch up with them. They have an hour's head start, and they cannot wait much longer for me. You,' he says, 'you head back to town and pack a bag. If you head south until you reach Annan River and then follow the bend, you'll be home in a couple hour's walk.'

Stiles nods, his heart in his throat.

'I will be back by sunset, and we will leave. Straight away. We can go anywhere you want.'

He gathers Stiles into his arms for a moment, and Stiles hugs him fiercely, his stomach twisted into excited knots. When Derek pulls away he's already begun to transform again, his fangs and claws growing.

'Now go, my love,' he growls, and then he is a wolf again, and the wolf slinks away into the shadows.

Stiles cannot stop smiling, even when it starts to ache.

 

-

 

Living in this world is like being cast into hell.

For Allison there are only sparks now, flashes of brilliant brightness, that ease her endless days. But all is shadow beyond that, and she knows, deep down in her bones, that very little will ever change that.

Her mother was murdered. Wasn’t even buried. They put her head on a pike like it was sport and the wolves were players. And now, months after the turmoil had seemed to ease, the swell to drop, she’s being forced out of her home again. Forced to run, again, just as the sparks are starting to catch and burn.

She wonders, absently, if this is what her life will be from now on. If they will never stop hunting her, all for the family she was born into, and her home will be a trail of breadcrumbs strewn wide across countless kingdoms. How hard it will make her, barely sleeping, barely stopping, just for the comfort of not being dead.

Allison doesn’t want to be dead. She knows that much at least. Because she loves her father dearly, and her aunt Kate, and Scott.

Scott is the brightest spark. It hurts her eyes to look at him.

She wonders, too, what she would do if her father let her stop running. Would they keep coming for her, day in and out, until she’s caught? Could she fight? She wants to. Allison is not afraid of dying, as much as she does not want to do it, and she has always known that she was made for battle, that she wouldn’t shy away from danger. There is something about picking up a bow and arrow, about the field levelling out when she takes aim. The world falls calm and clear when she has her bow in hand. Everything falls into place, makes a kind of sense she cannot find any other way. When she has her bow in her hand, and an arrow nocked and ready to draw, she knows she is the hunter and the thing in her sights is hunted.

She could kill a werewolf.

Wants to tear the head off the beast who took her mother.

Allison makes a promise to herself. Even though she is running away, even though her father is determined that their best plan of action is to withdraw. Allison makes a promise and a wish.

She promises to avenge her mother.

She wishes for the opportunity.

 

-

 

They set up camp as dawn breaks over the forest. Allison is so exhausted she’s expecting to fall off her horse at any minute, and her father looks worn at the edges and overexposed. Once they have a small fire going and all but inhaled their rations, the argument over who takes first watch begins.

This is not a new one, either.

It had started during the ride from the citadel, months back. Allison had insisted her faster rest first, because he cannot bounce back the way Allison can from little shut-eye. Her father, of course, insisted Allison sleep instead, because she is his daughter and he is compelled to look after her, etc, etc. What has developed ever since is the beginnings of a staring contest, followed by her father’s crowing of, ‘I am the king, and what I say goes!’ which is swiftly rebutted by Allison’s, ‘You’re not king anymore, and that’s not a valid argument!’

They start early this time around. Allison is pouting at her father even before she’s finished eating. Her father stares back solemnly, but then his expression changes to something that is so much like him, a smug expression as if he knows all.

‘You are so much like your mother sometimes, child. When I look at you, sometimes I think it’s all I see.’

Allison’s glare fades away, and for a moment she feels wistful, because as much as she isn’t okay with running and hiding when she would burn down the kingdom to catch her mother’s killer, she is glad she still has her father. She is glad he still finds things to smile at, even at the worst of times. He was always a good man, and everything a king could want to be.

Of course, it doesn’t last long. She grins in retaliation, and whisks her father’s water bladder away before he can drink. ‘Perhaps,’ she says, and pauses momentarily to wash down her meal with great gulps. ‘But that does not mean I’ll let you get away with everything like she did. I will take first watch, father. I insist.’

‘I will have nothing of the sort,’ replies her father. He holds a hand out for his bladder, patient until Allison hands it over. ‘You are my daughter, and I insist you sleep first.’

‘You are my father,’ replies Allison, jovial, ‘and the rightful king of our kingdom! And I decree the King needs his beauty sleep.’ Her father opens his mouth, then, to retaliate, but Allison throws up her arms, laughing. ‘No! No, do not deny it. I have made my decision.’

He gives her pause, which makes her smile, but then sighs, resigned. ‘Oh, Allison,’ he groans, ‘you will be the death of me.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Allison, determined. ‘For I shall have one hand on my bow, and one eye on the road. Now get some sleep.’

Her father sighs again, but curls onto his side inside his bedroll. Before too long, his breathing evens out, and Allison watches the greenery around her, eyes turned towards the road.

It is difficult, though, to keep them open after riding all night. She finds her head drooping after nearly an hour of sitting awake, her eyes fluttering in a desperate attempt to stay open. Her whole body feels heavy with exhaustion, and even with the meal in her stomach she feels so very tired, tired enough to consider waking her father.

And then there is a rustle from the trees.

Allison is on her feet in an instant, arrow drawn and ready to fire. She listens for another sound, for movement, but when she doesn’t hear it, she calls out instead. ‘Come out!’ she snaps, voice sounding too loud in the hushed forest. ‘I am armed and I will shoot you if I have to.’

‘Oh,’ comes a voice she knows too well, ‘I know, my girl. I put that bow in your hand, if I remember rightly.’

She comes as if out of nowhere, as if from the air itself. It curls, transforms, twists over onto itself, and there is Kate, her eyes wild, her smile a grimace. Allison gasps at this figment, at this impossibility, and is not sure whether to stand her ground or turn and run.

‘Allison!’ says Kate, and claps her hands for joy. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you.’

Allison raises her bow. ‘What are you?’ she asks.

There is a beat, but then Kate smiles again, wanders over to sit by the fire. ‘It’s me, silly: your Auntie Kate.’

‘But you came out of nowhere.’

‘I know!’ crows Kate. ‘Is it not spectacular? It is amazing what dark magic can do. Now sit down, girly, we’ve got a lot to talk about.’

Allison does not waver. She does not lower her bow. ‘I don’t understand –’ she begins.

‘Here, now child,’ tuts Kate, stepping forward, ‘none of that.’ She comes close enough to touch, but only pushes so Allison has to lower her bow. ‘I am fine! Let me explain.’

Kate takes to steering Allison towards the camp. Allison goes, stunned, and allows herself to be seated next to her Aunt. Her mouth hangs open as Kate explains.

‘When you lose a loved one,’ says Kate, setting Allison’s bow on the ground at their feet, ‘a part of you dies.’ She waves her hands, then, dismissively. ‘It’s all part of the circle of life: you start whole, and as the years wear you away, little bits fall off. Still, if you are clever, you can find things to patch yourself up with: a lover, a friendship, anything to make your heart swell.’ She pauses again, now, and smiles wide just like Allison’s father. It’s that knowing smirk, that look that every Argent carries. ‘Only I found the best thing of all. I stole the forest’s soul and I took it inside of me, and it has made me its Queen. I rule over the forest, as I am the forest itself. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can kill me. I will live forever, and I will cast down on all who wrong me. And, Allison, if you want, I will give this power to you.’

Allison is overwhelmed. She looks to her aunt and is very lost, neck deep in water. It is impossible, it has to be. And yet her aunt just appeared not two minutes before like she’d fallen from the sky. ‘To me?’ Allison says.

‘Of course!’ comes the reply, as if it is obvious. ‘We can rule the kingdom together – once your father goes, of course. We will be a force unstoppable. You just have to do one little thing for me.’

Allison frowns. Her aunt does not seem dissuaded, however, and continues on excitedly, her voice low as she conspires.

‘North of the Annan River, not far from the town you and your father hid away in, there is a werewolf who belongs to the pack responsible for your mother’s death.’

Now Allison is listening. She leans in, paying full attention. Kate catches it, looks on Allison with curiosity.

‘The wolf belongs to me,’ she says slowly, ‘and I do not want him harmed. But he has wronged me, Allison, and I will not stand for it.’ Her tone turns now, to disgust, and she spits the words as if she cannot even bear them on her tongue ‘He has taken a lover in a boy from that town, and I fear the boy has poisoned his mind. He speaks to me of true love, and ownership, of my repaying a debt I never owed him. I need his sorrow, and his anger. They’re too sweet, like mother’s milk. But if I lose him to this boy...’ She trails off, sighing.

Allison reaches forward, rests a hand on her aunt’s. Kate offers her a sad smile, and then her face turns hard, searching. ‘I want you to kill the boy, Allison,’ she says, finally. ‘I want you to kill him slowly, and painfully, so that he suffers every hurt he’s forced upon me, and so that Derek knows never to cross me again. Can you do that?’

Allison thinks hard. She thinks about what she could do with that power, what she wants more than anything. She thinks about what she would give to avenge her mother. ‘If I do this,’ she says, slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘will I be strong enough to fight the werewolves?’

Kate’s eyes flash bright. ‘They’ll be slaves to you, child. They’ll be dolls for you to play with, ants to step on. The world looks so small from where I stand.’

‘And I shall be able to take the throne back?’ asks Allison.

‘In an instant. Anything you want.’ She holds her hand up, though, insistent. ‘You just have to kill the boy first.’

Allison looks to her father, sleeping peacefully. She thinks about him sitting on his rightful throne, the empty chair where his wife should be. She thinks about sitting there herself, one day, a husband at her side. She thinks about putting the heads of the Hale pack on a spike for the kingdom to see. There’s a sick pleasure in that thought. It makes her bold, makes her brave.

‘Then I will do it.’

 

-

 

Allison feels poorly for leaving her father behind, sleeping soundly, with nothing to explain her disappearance but a hastily scrawled note apologising for stealing his horse. She knows he will be disappointed, but she also knows that what she wants more than anything is the chance to take out Peter Hale. She needs to do this. Opportunity has come knocking, and she would be a fool to turn it away.

With her aunt’s magic behind them, the horse she rides on travels twice as fast. In a matter of three or four hours they have passed the border, and meet the southern-most edge of Annan River, less than an hour’s walk from the town she had called home not too long ago. Allison makes plans to pause and have her horse drink, rest, before travelling the rest of the way. They have time up their sleeve, for now, because Kate had given the werewolf and his lover a day and a night, but the sooner they act, the better.

Something happens, though, at the river, that gives Allison pause.

The horses will not drink. They panic, instead, spooked for no particular reason, pawing gashes into the earth and shaking their heads. Allison shoots her aunt a concerned glance, but Kate turns her face away, up the bank.

‘Allison,’ she says, cautious and quiet, ‘tie up the horses.’

Allison moves quickly, without question. When they are secured, her aunt directs her sight to something she had missed on first sight: a camp. The travellers are instantly recognisable.

‘Werewolves,’ Allison breathes. She can remember seeing all three of them in the castle the night her mother was murdered. They are all young, perhaps not much older than she is. There is a tall, dark one, a young man who is broad-shouldered and the most threatening of the three. He is sleeping, though, curled in next to the other young man of the company. This young man is tall as well, but fair skinned, with a mop of curly blonde hair and bright eyes. Both of them are sleeping soundly, low noises escaping them when they breathe out like a cat purring. The one keeping watch, the only female, has a mane of blonde curls, and is dressed in tight, tight clothing so her pale breasts spill out of the opening of her tunic. She has dark smears of makeup around her eyes like the painted women of the court.

‘How can you tell?’ whispers Kate in her ear.

‘I recognise them,’ replies Allison, faintly.

‘But if you did not?’

Allison shoots her aunt a glance. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Tell me,’ insists Kate.

Allison scrunches up her face, annoyed, but breathes out, low, and points towards the gathering. ‘They sleep without bedrolls or a fire to keep them warm. And the men are growling in their sleep.’

Kate looks pleased, but what comes out of her mouth is, ‘And?’

Allison shakes her head.

‘The blonde boy,’ says Kate, dipping her head towards him. ‘He sleeps as if he is chasing a rabbit in his dreams, much like a dog would.’

Allison takes a second look, and sure enough, the blonde one’s legs are kicking listlessly. But something strikes her as odd, then, because she know werewolves have much better hearing and sight than humans. They should be able to detect her heart beat.

‘Aunt,’ whispers Allison, ‘Can they not hear us?’

Kate waves a hand dismissively. ‘Allison, I am inherently magical. They cannot see nor hear us because I do not want them to.’ She smiles, then, and leans into her niece, whispering darkly. ‘Tell me: have you ever killed a werewolf?’

Allison shakes her head again. ‘No. I hit one with a poker once.’

‘A poker?’

Allison blushes. ‘From the fireside. It was the first thing I could find.’

Kate laughs at that. ‘Creative and quick thinking! I like it. Well, we’re going to take a step up today, my dear.’ She wraps an arm around Allison’s shoulder, turns the pair of them towards the werewolf camp. ‘I want you to kill them. All three.’

Allison is surprised to find herself hesitate. It is not that she is not willing to kill these beasts – because that is what they are. It is, instead, that she sees another opportunity, one much more to her advantage that simply slaughtering monsters. Because these creatures are part of Peter Hale’s war-mongering pack. And, if she plays her cars right, they can give her answers.

 

-

 

They take the female on watch by surprise, pour belladonna in her water supply and trick her into drinking it. The girl’s lungs close over, and she shudders, fits so that her body shakes and convulses painfully, her legs splayed, her arms tight to her chest while her companions sleep.

Allison sets fire to the sleeping pair, and watches as their clothing catches. The larger of the two, the dark one, is overwhelmed and goes up so much faster. The other wakes, though, and rushes to the river to put himself out.

The river drags him under on Kate’s command.

The werewolves do not die, but lie unconscious, tied with the wolfsbane rope from Allison’s pack. Allison plans to come back when they wake, with knives and poisons and all the wolfsbane she can carry.

 

-

 

‘Are you sure about this?’ asks Scott, wrapping a wedge of cheese in linen.

‘With all my heart,’ replies Stiles, rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. There is a fruit cake somewhere that he was saving, hiding from his father, and he cannot recall where he put it. ‘This is my one chance, Scott. I’m not going to waste it.’

‘But what about Lydia?’

Stiles shakes his head, half-climbs into the pantry with outstretched arms to check behind the smoked meat. ‘Lydia is – I swear, it has to be here somewhere – not in love with me. But Derek,’ and here he climbs back out again, to look Scott in the eye so that Scott knows, ‘he gave up everything for me. He gave up his freedom willingly to be with me. That means something.’

Scott looks surprised, but then there’s a soft look that passes over his face, and if he isn’t thinking of Allison then Stiles does not know him nearly as well as he suspects. ‘I guess that makes sense,’ he replies, fondly. ‘But I’m going to miss you.’

Stiles clambers to his feet, brushes off his knees absently. ‘It won’t be forever – at least, I do not think so. We will figure something out. I don’t want to leave my father behind. I fear he will not cope.’

‘He’ll understand,’ says Scott. ‘I remember how he used to look at your mother. I have never seen a look with so much love.’

Stiles is a little overwhelmed then, because Scott is the best, kindest, greatest friend Stiles could ever have. Across thousands of years, and despite his shortcomings, Scott is a godsend. He is a miracle. Stiles tackles him into a hug, laughing with the way his chest swoops with love.

They have found the fruitcake – or at least, what’s left of it – and packed nearly all of Stiles’ clothing, when there is a knock at the door. Stiles offers to get it, leaving Scott in his bedroom, shoving clothes with much aplomb and little to no skill into Stiles’ pack.

It is Allison at the door.

Allison in dirty black clothing and knotting hair. Allison with a dagger in her hand and that look on her face that Stiles can remember from when he first saw her shoot a bow and arrow. He is her target. Her knife glints bright, shiny sharp silver, and then again, at the base of his throat.

Stiles lets the door slide shut behind him.

‘Your Highness?’ he asks, barely breathing.

Allison’s eyes are dead. Her mouth is a mean streak. She chews over words in her mouth, but then flicks the dagger up instead, so it rests in the underside of his chin. ‘Traitor,’ she breathes.

‘Allison,’ says Stiles, slow as he gets the words out, ‘what is going on?’

She moves then, blurring quick and flawless, and then Stiles is pressed up against wood of the door with a thud, and Allison’s arm is resting heavy across his throat, the edge of the knife pressed tight to his skin. When he swallows the skin breaks, and Stiles shudders out a breath, squeezes his eyes tight shut.

‘All this time I trusted you,’ Allison grinds between her teeth, her mouth near Stiles’ ear. ‘All this time I let you in, I told you secrets even my lady’s maids did not know, and you were lying all along. You disgust me.’ She spits then, on Stiles’ face, right under his eye, and Stiles feels like he might shake apart, cannot understand why Allison is doing all of this.

‘Careful,’ comes a voice behind her, a laughing, taunting voice that Stiles knows too well. He opens his eyes, and Kate is standing over Princess Allison’s shoulder, a long piece of rope twisted between her fingers. ‘Any more enthusiasm, and Stiles will miss the big finale. We cannot have that, child, can we?’

Allison is fuming with rage, is boiling over with it. For a moment she just stares at Stiles, seething, but then she steps back, only barely, knife still tight in her hand. Kate takes her cue and slips in between them to bind Stiles’ wrists, to gag his mouth, to drag him out to the horses and throw him over the saddle like a sack of potatoes.

Stiles does not fight the tears of humiliation that run down his face, does not fight or struggle because he knows, somehow, that it will only make his death so much sooner. Because he is going to die tonight, isn’t he? Before he can see Derek again, before he can get away, before they can break the spell Kate has over him. He is going to die.

He just hopes Scott is paying attention.

 

-

 

There are long, loud wolf howls carrying over the valley as the sun begins to sink.

They make Scott start, make his heart thump like a frightened jackrabbit, like a scared animal caught in a trap. He wants to get up, to run, but he is not sure if there is anywhere he can run to that would fix the predicament he is in.

Because they have Stiles. Kate and – oh, _hell_ – Allison caught him, and he went so easily, didn’t even fight back to save himself. Scott does not know what to do, who he can turn to. He knows Derek is coming, that Derek told Stiles he would come for him by sunset, but if Derek is too late, Stiles will be dead by then. He may even be dead now.

That thought sends Scott panicking madly. He needs Stiles for times like these, to be the calm one, to be the one who has the good ideas and the good plans and the knowledge behind him about what to do. He isn’t used to doing this on his own. He isn’t used to doing this at all. The only person he has known to die that he loved was Stiles’ mother, and her sickness was not preventable, was not a murder. It was a long, slow, painful process, rife with moments of panic and great sadness, but it was never the sort of sickness that required plans of action of brave rescues.

It is far too long before Derek arrives.

The sun is low in the sky, and the sunset is red like the colour of blood. Scott is still sitting in Stiles’ bedroom, staring out the window, when the front door slams open and Derek starts shouting.

‘Stiles?’ he bellows. ‘Where is she?’

There’s a moment of pause, and then the sound of several heavy footsteps approaching. Stiles’ bedroom door bangs open wide, and there is Derek, eyes flaring blue, teeth turned to fangs, his hands claws. He is breathing heavy, snarling on the exhale. Scott is on his feet in an instant, stumbling back towards the wall. He presses himself tight into the corner, making himself small as possible.

‘WHERE IS SHE?’ roars Derek, and then there is another werewolf behind him, a woman perhaps a few years his senior, with matching blue eyes and matching claws, and similar facial features, and she grasps his arm in warning.

‘She’s not here, Derek,’ she says, past her fangs. ‘We would know if she was.’

There is another howl in the distance, and the woman turns away, momentarily. Then she looks back, and she’s more wolf than she was before, her forehead a different shape, hair growing along the sides of her face. ‘That was Erica,’ she growls, her voice inhuman. ‘She’s hurt.’

‘Go to her, then,’ spits Derek. ‘I have to find Stiles.’ And then his eyes meet Scott’s and Scott has never been so afraid of anything in his life as he is now.

‘She took him!’ he shouts, because that’s all he can think to say.

Both werewolves pause, stare Scott down.

‘She –’ he wheezes, ‘she – Kate was here, she came to the house, she tied him up and she –’

Derek is in his face in an instant, growling low. Scott scrambles backwards, although there’s nowhere to go. ‘ _Where did she take him_?’

‘I DON’T KNOW!’ bellows Scott, because there’s nothing else he can think to do but yell back. ‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, I ONLY SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW. ALLISON HELD A KNIFE AT STILES’ THROAT –’

‘Allison?’ says the woman. ‘The King’s daughter?’

‘-AND THEN THEY TIED STILES UP AND TOOK HIM AWAY. I DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T HERE –’ he pauses, gasping, ‘-AND THERE’S NO ONE ELSE THAT CAN HELP –’ and then he cannot breathe at all, and he wheezes, glaring.

There’s a third howl, and a man comes in, another werewolf, shifted. ‘There is not any time for this, nephew,’ he growls, and pushes past the woman to drag Derek away. ‘Erica is down, and by the sounds of it in a great amount of pain, and we are here, squabbling over a human.’

‘I love him,’ snarls Derek, teeth gnashing. ‘I will not leave him behind.’

‘Then stop forcing yourself on this dolt and start asking the right questions,’ says the man, and his eyes flash red like Derek’s do blue. Derek ducks away, bitter. The man turns to Scott then, and smiles a shark smile, all teeth and danger. ‘What is your name, boy?’ he asks, easy.

‘Scott,’ says Scott.

‘Scott,’ repeats the man. ‘My name is Peter Hale. Do you know what I am?’

Scott nods. The name sounds familiar.

‘Good,’ says Peter. ‘Then you know that if you do not tell me what I want, I shall tear your throat out. Is that clear?’

Scott nods again, numb.

Peter wanders forward, carefully, his movements careless, and rests a hand on Scott’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, then, where Kate Argent went.’

Scott swallows, and Peter’s eyes trace the movement like he wants to eat Scott alive. ‘I don’t know,’ says Scott, quietly.

Peter smiles again, tutting. ‘Scott, I can hear your heartbeat. I can tell when you lie to me. Now,’ and he comes closer, ‘one more time: where. Is. Kate. Argent.’

‘I did not hear where they were going,’ Scott shakes out, gasping. ‘I only know which way they went.’

Peter raises an eyebrow, expectant.

‘They took the south path, towards that place that burned down years ago.’

‘Burned down?’ says the woman, over Peter’s shoulder.

‘The old house,’ says Derek, and his voice is all guilt and resentment. ‘Of course.’

With that, Peter is snarling, roaring, shaking as he holds back his transformation. Derek and the woman reel back, scuttle and shy away in fear, and Scott turns his face away, eyes scrunched shut. He does not see what happens next, but he can hear the crack of bones breaking, the tear and shred of clothing being ripped apart, and then something is leaping past him in a blur of movement and crashing through the window, shutters snapping outwards.

Scott takes a deep, unsteady breath and then opens his eyes. The woman, eyes flashing blue, darts forward to the open window and peers out, nose in the air. She glances over her shoulder momentarily at Derek and then makes to climb out and follow the Alpha.

‘I’ll get Uncle Peter, and we’ll get Erica and the others.’ She leaps, like a cat, and then she’s outside, landing on her feet easily. ‘Go to him, and be careful. We will come and help you as soon as we can.’

The woman takes off, then, running on hands and feet after her Alpha. Scott turns to stare at Derek, mouth open. Derek only glares, and then turns on his heel for the door.

‘Wait!’ yells Scott.

The growl he receives in response is a warning, but Scott races after Derek to the front door and then out again. ‘Let me come with you,’ he insists. ‘Stiles is my best friend, and Allison is –’

‘Allison is as good as dead the instant I get my hands on her,’ snaps Derek. ‘Stay here.’

‘No,’ insists Scott, and trots alongside, walking twice as fast to match Derek’s pace. ‘I will not let you leave me behind.’

Derek turns on him, gnashing his fangs. ‘There’s no time for this. You are far too slow.’

‘Then run ahead,’ wheezes Scott, already feeling the impact of chasing Derek in the shortness of his breath. ‘I will still follow you. I know where that house is and I am not going to abandon –’

But Derek takes off at a sprint, and Scott knows he cannot afford to keep talking if he is going to help save his friend. So he picks up the pace again, jogging behind even as Derek gets further and further away.

He catches up with Derek at the river.

The Annan was the only thing that ever separated the Hale house from the rest of town. Scott does not know how long it had been there before it had been razed to the ground, but he does know that the Annan was the only thing that stopped the fire from taking down the entire town in one fell swoop. He can remember, vaguely, watching the orange blaze above the trees the night it had happened, waking to his father stomping and swearing as he rushed out to help douse the flames. He can remember Stiles suggesting they sneak out to see the carcass of the house, blackened and dead, little more than a day later, and Stiles’ mother explaining that it was disrespectful because of the family that had died that night.

He can remember going out there, a year or so later, and watching the older children dare one another to cross the crumbling wooden bridge and search through the ruins, ghost hunting, before the bridge caved in, anyway. After that, the place had been left, abandoned, because the river was always too dangerous to swim across. He knows of so many people from the town that have drowned in that river, that have been dragged under and never spat back out again.

Derek is making plans to swim across when he reaches the bank.

The cremated ruins of the old house loom up above them, and Annan River rushes past, deep and wide and flooded. The noise alone of the rush and swell is deafening, as the grey water churns endlessly, but past that, from the house, comes a high-pitched, pained yell.

It is Stiles. He’s alive. Scott finds himself yelling Stiles’ name despite himself, despite the fact that he knows it will make little difference to improve the situation.

Derek whines low in his throat and paces back and forth at the shore. He is fuming, huffing and puffing like an angry bull taunted by a red rag. He appears to be acting on instinct, somewhere between human and animal, his eyes darting across the waves and then back across the shore in search of something to help propel himself forward. When he does not find anything, a fallen branch or log to make a makeshift raft or bridge, he begins stripping himself of clothing. His dusty leather coat hits the ground, and then he’s ripping at the ties of his tunic with his claws.

He is, thinks Scott. He is going to swim across. He’ll surely drown if he does, no matter how strong a swimmer he may be.

‘Wait,’ insists Scott, and makes a grab for Derek’s elbow. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, even though he knows the answer.

Derek tears his arm away. ‘I am going to leap across the other side,’ he grates out, and kicks away his clothing from around his feet.

Scott stares out into the churning waves of Annan River and shakes his head. ‘You won’t make it!’

‘I will,’ grunts Derek shortly. ‘I have to.’

Derek turns away from the water’s edge, and back towards the path. Scott stares, eyes wide, and can only watch as Derek does a run up, torso bare, hands clenched. He is almost at the edge when a voice stops him dead in his tracks.

‘Uh uh uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

Derek comes to a screeching halt, feet sliding out from underneath him in the mud. Derek lands in a crouch, half-turned on his side, and then scrambles back, staring at the water. The swell is moving, shifting in a way that isn’t natural. It turns back on itself, rises up too high, curls around and pulls apart all the way down to the root, the riverbed dry as dust peeking out. From between the parted waves comes a boy, soaking wet, arms crossed. His hair is dripping wet, plastered to his face, and his skin is mottled blue and grey. The worst part is that Scott knows him, recognises him even as a corpse, and cannot believe his eyes.

‘Matt?’ he gasps, his feet dragging him forward.

The boy pauses, but then turns towards Scott, eyes wide. He smiles, his teeth bared, and water oozes from out of his mouth, spills over his soaking clothing. ‘Hey there, Scott,’ he says, bright. If he was not so very dead Scott would not think so much of his tone, but as it is there are bones poking through the skin of Matt’s arms, and water leaking from him like he is made entirely of the stuff. ‘Long time, no see,’ he continues. ‘I mean, not since I died, anyway. How have you been?’  
Derek stares openly at Scott. Scott does not blame him, his own eyes wide and his mouth fallen open. ‘Y –’ he starts, but doesn’t really know what to say, and so finds himself finishing with, ‘ah, yes?’

Derek seems to think that is enough of the small talk. He gets to his feet, glaring at the dead boy. ‘We need to cross the river,’ he offers, and nothing more.

Matt shrugs. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I cannot let you do that. See, I drowned here a few years back. Some of the older kids in town dared me to cross that burned out bridge,’ and he points with his thumb over one shoulder to the place where the bridge used to be, just pieces of charred wood left behind, ‘which of course has the structural stability of a rotten log. When I died that bitch Queen of the Forest tied my soul to the river for being disrespectful of the dead, and I have been stuck here ever since, forced to do her bidding.’ He smiles sadly then, as if to offer condolences wordlessly. ‘I’d let you cross – I would – but she will not let me.’

Across the river there is a scream like bloody murder. It makes Scott start, gasping. To his left Derek balks, starts towards the river’s edge before stopping himself dead again. The scream drags on and on, nothing but pure agony, and Scott wants to crawl up into a ball and cry for the sound of it, the anguish that sets into his bones. He cannot do anything, and it hurts his head.

Matt glances over his shoulder momentarily, waves swirling around him. When he looks back there is concern on his face, but he doesn’t say anything.  
‘Did you hear that?’ Derek grinds.

Matt nods. ‘Yes,’ he says, a little less chipper than before. ‘It’s that Stiles kid, right? Brown hair, skinny, lots of moles? They flew him over the river a while back. Flying Horses!’ He shakes his head, then. ‘Ingenious. He’s been screaming out for someone called Derek for nearly an hour now. I will be honest, I do not think he’s going to last much longer.’

‘Derek,’ pleads Scott, ‘we have to do something.’

Derek only growls in warning, but looks to Matt, the desperation clear on his face. ‘Please,’ he says, the word shattering his voice, ‘I need to save him.’

‘I am sorry,’ repeats Matt, ‘but there is nothing I can do. I cannot let you pass.’

Stiles screams again, high and thready and jolting, and the scream turns to shuddered shouting, to wavering and tears.

‘Derek!’ bellows Scott.

Derek shoots Scott another look as if he wants to rip Scott’s head off for all the help he’s not providing. He wrings his hands and grinds the mud under his feet. He spends several moments with his eyes on the house, as if he is searching for something, and then lets out his breath in a rush of air. ‘Let me make a deal with you,’ he snaps eventually.

‘I told you –’ begins Matt, but Derek cuts him off.

‘You hate the Queen of the Forest, do you not?’

Matt nods.

‘Well, she owns me,’ explains Derek, slowly. ‘It would break her if I were to die by magic cast by her own hand.’

There’s a beat, but then Matt leans forward, expression unreadable. ‘I am listening,’ is his reply.

Derek heaves out another sigh, looks up to the house for another moment, his ears pricked, before continuing. ‘Let me and mine pass,’ he says to Matt, then. ‘Both ways, and unharmed. And no matter what happens inside that house, when I come back the other way… you can take my life.’

Scott gapes. ‘Derek?’ he starts, but Derek waves him away, without even glancing around.

‘I don’t have any other choice,’ he says, quiet. ‘I do not have anything else to offer. Stiles will be fine, I just need to stop them before –’

As if on cue, Stiles’ screaming cuts the air around them. Amidst the yowl, Scott makes out Derek’s name. It is like someone has Scott’s heart in their hand and is squeezing.

‘Please!’ yells Derek. ‘We’re running out of time!’

Matt looks down at his feet, at the sand underneath his purple toes. Scott wonders, absently, if the Queen’s pull on him is such that he will not take the deal, that he’ll turn them away. But then Matt looks up, and there is a wicked smile on his face, but he raises a hand in offering.

‘We have a deal,’ he says.

Derek visibly deflates next to Scott, shakes Matt’s hand firmly.

‘Follow me,’ says Matt then, and the waves around him part from shore to shore, the swell of the water breaking as if up against a pane of glass. ‘But tread carefully, werewolf.’

Scott lets Derek step into the riverbed path first, and the werewolf eases himself down, eyes darting towards the walls of water on either side of him as if they will tumble in at any second. Matt turns towards the other bank and walks easily, water dribbling out to pool underneath his feet and dripping off the ends of his fingers. With one last glance towards the house in front of him, Scott climbs down too. Instantly it is as if he is fully submerged under the water: the walls of grey and frothy white splash droplets onto Scott and make the light glow green around him. There is mud underneath his feet, sticky and thick, and shadows deep enough that it is difficult to tell what he’s putting his foot down on until it has already trod. Still, Scott continues on, both his eyes carefully watching the water as it holds back.  
When they reach the other side Matt steps back to let Derek climb up, and then Scott. Scott scrambles up the bank gracelessly, and has to take Derek’s offered hand to finally pull himself all the way out. Instantly the walls of water come crashing down, roaring with white sound. Matt has his back to the cacophonous crashing, but does not flinch away, or move at all. He smiles wide instead, with dead eyes.

‘My pack are on their way,’ Derek says.

‘I shall let them pass,’ is Matt’s reply. ‘Our deal stands. I will have your precious bones on your return.’

And then he disappears into the swell, is swallowed whole underneath the churching grey, and Scott glances away, a chill running down his spine.

Derek has already turned, and is flying up towards the house. Scott rushes to follow him, scrabbling across the ground on hands and feet for a moment before he breaks out into a run. Before him, Derek bursts through the door with a sound like thunder, fractured black wood and ash bursting out around him. Scott tumbles in after.

The scene before them is like a nightmare. Stiles is kneeling on the ashy floor, his hands bound behind his back. There are red raw grazes underneath one eye and along his jaw, and angry red bruises starting to form around both eyes. He is gasping for breath, head bent forward, his shirt cut open. There is an ugly slash across his front, from shoulder to navel, and it oozes sticky thick blood. Around it are several more cuts, smaller, and more shallow, but they have all bled too, are all lined in red.

Standing back, eyes laughing dark, is Kate, her magic sizzling out from her like a halo. Her hair is standing on ends, lightning zinging around her body and crackling white and blue. But standing over Stiles, her face taught with grim determination, is Princess Allison. She is holding a silver knife, the edge dripping blood.

‘Allison?’ whispers Scott.

Allison looks up, and for a moment something passes across her eyes – shock, thinks Scott – but then her features settle and there is nothing there but hate and fury and resolve.

Derek rumbles, deep and low in his chest. His claws glint in the half-light. ‘Kate,’ he growls, a rolling thing that barely sounds like the word it forms. Across from him, the Queen of the forest grins, a hollow, fierce grimace, and she lifts a hand.

Lightning hits Derek in his bare chest. He is thrown across the room, blown off his feet to land heavy against the wall. There is a shower of ash and a dangerously loud crunch as the wall cracks under the pressure. Derek lands on his feet, though, one hand out in front of him for support, and he roars, the sound vicious and inhuman.

He takes a flying leap at Kate, launches himself at her with all his weight and power behind him. Kate swats him away like an insect; Derek rolls away, and the snap of bone reverberates around the room.

‘You will not learn,’ drawls Kate through sharp teeth. ‘You will not listen when I warn you, and you mock me with your insolence.’

Derek pushes himself up onto his elbows and then his knees. He shakes out the hand he landed on, and Scott watches with wide eyes as his wrist, sitting at the wrong angle, slips back into place with ease. He bares his teeth at Kate, slowly gets back to his feet.

‘When you first told me you had bedded a human, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, although not without warning. I told you, Derek, that if you crossed me again, I would punish you.’

‘You promised me the night,’ roars Derek. ‘You promised me, Kate.’

The Queen throws her head back and laughs. It is a distorted sound, with too many voices clamouring out at once. She laughs and laughs and all the while Stiles is wavering, and Scott cannot face down Allison with a knife.

‘I said you could have the time. That you could never see him again after this night is over. But I want to make sure that you can never see him again, and the only way you will ever learn your lesson is to make sure that this cannot happen again.’ She looks past him, then, towards her niece. ‘Allison!’ she calls.

In an instant Allison is shifting forward, dragging Stiles to his feet. He goes willingly, but his knees buckle under him and neither of the pair are strong enough to hold him up. He falls, and Scott rushes forward, catches where Allison cannot. He helps her haul Stiles to his feet.

‘Allison,’ Scott pleads, ‘stop this, I beg you!’

Allison turns on him, fuming. ‘Let go of him!’ she cries, and shoves Scott away. He sprawls backwards, wide-eyed. Allison drops Stiles, and he falls face-first to the ground, hasn’t got the strength to move again or even roll himself over. Allison turns the dagger towards Scott in warning. ‘Do not touch me again, Scott, or I swear I will put it through him, I will!’

Derek growls, clambering to his feet. He scrabbles for a moment amongst the ash, and it falls off him in sheets, leaves sooty marks all over his skin. But as soon as he is standing he makes a move towards Allison.

The Queen is too fast, though. She corners Derek, and pulls her sword from its scabbard at her hip. She presses the tip against his sternum. ‘Do not move, werewolf, or I will cut you deep.’

Derek growls, jostling forward. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he snarls.

Kate has a look in her eyes, though, of a woman mad enough to be capable. ‘Are you sure?’ she bleats, her smirk turned manic. ‘Are you certain I would not?’

Derek lets out a snarl and makes to push past her. With lightning precision, Kate slashes out, and the sword, arching, slices through the skin above Derek’s heart. The open wound sizzles, oozes black. Derek rocks back on his heels, hissing.

‘My love,’ coos Kate, moving forward until Derek s back against the wall again, ‘I know what you are, and what you are capable of. This sword is made of silver, and painted in wolfsbane potion. And if you force me, sweetheart, I will ram it home. Now on your knees.’

Derek hesitates, but only just. His eyes glance across to Stiles, lying face-down, and then back to the Queen. But he kneels, mouth a tight line, eyes shining. Kate stands behind him, her sword slung below his throat. And then she leans in, over his shoulder, and whispers into his ear.

‘Watch, Derek, as I have your boy torn apart.’

Scott is on his feet again, racing to get to Stiles before Allison. He has no plan past barging in, no idea how he will get away fast enough with Stiles incapable of carrying himself, but he knows that he has to do something. What he does not plan on is Allison and her dagger.

The blade catches him across one shoulder. Scott stumbles back, stinging. Allison aims the tip towards him, grinds out, ‘Step back, Scott,’ and then waits, hackles raised.

‘Allison,’ begs Scott, ‘please.’

‘I have to do this,’ spits Allison.

‘No you don’t,’ he replies.

‘You shouldn’t be here!’ she shouts, and thrusts forward with the blade. Scott takes another step back, arms raised in surrender. ‘I do not want you to see this!’ she continues, and there are tears in her eyes, but her face is still scrunched and she’s still standing strong, single-minded.

‘Please let him go,’ says Scott. ‘We will leave the kingdom, if that’s what you want. He will never see Derek again, I promise. Just let him go.’

‘Allison,’ warns the Queen.

Allison looks torn all of a sudden. She glances from her aunt back to Scott, and then to her aunt again.

‘We made a deal,’ says Kate, her voice dangerous and low. ‘I will give you everything you want, but you need to do this first.’

‘Do not listen to her!’ snaps Derek, but stops short when Kate raises her sword.

‘Kill him, Allison!’ goads the Queen. ‘Do it now!’

‘Allison,’ begs Scott, and risks darting forward again to take Allison’s arm, ‘wait.’

‘Time is wasting!’ cries the Queen.

‘Allison,’ says Scott again.

‘Now!’ screams the Queen.

‘Allison,’ pleads Scott, ‘do not do this.’

The Queen howls with fury. ‘DO IT NOW OR OUR DEAL IS FORFEIT.’

Allison is shaking. Her shoulders, and her hands. But she steels herself, stands tall. She tears her arm from Scott’s grip. And she lifts the blade against Scott’s throat, threatening. ‘Move away.’

Scott feels his stomach drop. His heart breaks a little, to see Allison this way, and he knows she can see that in him, because her breath hitches, just a little, and for a moment the resolve melts away, and she is shaking her head, begging him to stand down. Only he cannot, because his best friend’s life is on the line, and there is no way that he will just let Stiles be taken from him. Not even by Allison.

‘Please,’ he says, once more for luck.

Allison’s voice turns cold and dead. ‘Move away or I will kill you, too.’

He wants to. Wants to stand back, because he does not want to die. But he is a man of his word, always has been, and he has made his decision already. If his fate is set, then he will die now. If that is what it must be.

‘I’m sorry,’ Scott croaks out. ‘I will not.’

Allison’s eyes are wide, but the dagger hasn’t moved from its position. He watches her, weighing all this up in her mind, if she is willing to kill him for whatever deal she has made. If it will be worth Scott’s death. But then a voice speaks, from beneath them, tired and quiet and so worn that it is like rust, barely sound at all.

‘Don’t get brave on me now, Scotty.’

It is Stiles. Stiles, who is coughing out ash and blood from his lungs, who does not have enough strength to roll himself over but still has the gall to call Scott down, right at the end. He is stupid and fearless and loyal, and Scott wants to beat him about the head, a little, for pulling the card of a dying man’s last wish.

‘I was always brave,’ says Scott, and stares into Allison’s soul.

‘My life was never on the line, though,’ replies Stiles.

Allison raises her arm to strike.

 

-

 

The sword shifts, the Queen’s arm curling tighter around Derek’s throat. He does not move underneath her, only bares his fangs in protest. His nose is filled with her scent, strong and far too much, sickly sweet and bitter, like earth and rotting wood. He bites his own tongue not to howl or rage, not to try to tear away, for Stiles’ sake. There is nothing he can do that will not end in so much death.

Kate digs her hand into his hair. With a fistful caught, she yanks back, hard, and Derek hisses through his teeth at the sting. She leans in close to his ear, so close that her lips press against the lobe, and her words are like dark magic, drawing him in.

‘Watch them die, Derek. Do not dare even blink until it is done.’

Across the room, Allison raises her arm to strike.

 

-

 

Everything is going wrong.

It was hard enough to know that the boy she would have to kill is a boy she knows well, even considered a friend. It was hard enough to have to face him down and watch him come willingly, barely fight against the bonds she helped tie him with, let himself be tortured to the point of his skin breaking, and only scream when the pain was just too much. It has been hard enough to do all those things, but she does it because she knows that this is the price she has to pay to save the kingdom. There are sacrifices that need to be made, and werewolf sympathisers are not people she can look upon lightly. Even if the werewolf Stiles has entangled himself will go free, the act of taking Stiles’ life will be punishment enough.

But then Scott had arrived, and this knot of doubt had twisted itself inside her stomach. And even as he begged her to stop, to let Stiles free, she had tried. Had battled tooth and nail to the very last of her will power. She had even threatened to take his life too.

He was always so brave. She should have seen this coming.

For Scott will not stand down. He looks to her, the dagger at his throat, and he will not step away. And so she has to kill him, too, it seems, and she…

And Allison…

She would not wish this upon her worst enemy. Her heart will die today, with him.

Allison raises her arm to strike.

 

-

 

Allison raises her arm to strike, and the house is flooded with the sounds of howling.

Scott starts, his heart kicking painfully in his chest in fright. He glances towards the door, but the sound is all around them, surrounding them from every angle. Her dagger still raised over him, Allison glances around, and then towards her aunt. Kate’s face has turned sour, and before their eyes she seems to morph, to change into something that is not altogether human. Her hair sparks with energy, her eyes and teeth flashing milky. The sword in her grip zings to life, and it wobbles dangerously against the skin of Derek’s throat.

‘Hurry,’ says the Queen. ‘We are out of time, niece.’

Allison turns back towards Scott, and there is panic in her eyes. Allison’s arm has drooped, sagging at the elbow, the blade pointed down. She is breathing hard, as if she has run as far as her feet will take her, and he knows, somehow, that her resolve has been shaken. Scott takes a tentative step forward, and reaches out for her.  
The werewolves come crashing in, then, and she spooks like a startled horse.

They pour in through the caved-in door like a torrent, a flood of fur and teeth and flashing eyes. Allison is knocked to the ground in their ascent, and she scuttles away, gasping for breath. Two leap Stiles, towards Derek and Kate. Kate stands, one hand like a claw curled over Derek’s shoulder, her grip like a vice, and raises her sword in warning. She is a wild animal cornered, as vicious and unpredictable as a scared beast, and it shows in the way she slashes out with her weapon, the way she bares her teeth and yells out in warning.

The Alpha ducks about Kate’s hack-stabbing, and with quick footedness finds his way to one side of her. He sinks his teeth into her sword hand, and the blade goes clattering across the floor. The Queen flails back, screeching.

In her pained cries she cannot control the magic that surges through her. The blood that sloshes to the floor about her springs to life, curling vines blossoming sideways along the ashes. Her feet take root underneath her, become roots that attach her to the ground and bind her legs together. She is a tree bursting through her own chest, and shaking the walls around the pack. 

To the Alpha’s right, the only blue-eyed wolf transforms back into the dark-haired woman, Laura. She scrambles forward on hands and knees, and takes up Kate’s sword. Then, with all her strength behind her, she thrusts it forward, through the place the Queen’s heart should be.

The Queen is pinned to the wall, screaming and bloody and shivering with transformation.

The wolves take this as cue to become human once more. Scott stares, eyes wide, as four wolves become men and women, and then there are five naked people standing in the burned down Hale house, and not one of them are ashamed of their nakedness. There is the Alpha, his eyes still glowing vivid red, and three more betas, glaring about the room – two young men, one dark-skinned and the other with fuzzy, blonde hair, and another young woman, her hair a mess of pale coils. The blonde-haired man is the first to turn on Allison.

‘She’s the one,’ he growls, and slithers forward, teeth bared in threat. Allison is panting from fright, but raises her dagger, her hand shaking.

‘Do not come any closer,’ she warns, and her voice is tight and unwavering despite the way she is shaking apart with her fear.

The blonde woman laughs, bitter. ‘Or what? Your precious witch Queen cannot save you now, Princess. You are going to pay for what you did to us.’

She stalks forward, the other betas in tow. Allison, determined, darts between them and then sprints across the room towards her aunt. Kate is writhing, gasping, thrashing against the sword, which squelches sticky in her gut. She almost has her magic under control by now, the roots retracted to her bare legs and feet, but her hands are still too long and twisted, like branches, and her hair flies about her face like it is reaching for the sun, long sunk behind the horizon. She has blood in long stripes down her trousers.

Allison grips the hilt in her hand, and, without giving another thought, or pause to apologise to the Queen, tugs hard. Kate lets out a bloody scream, pawing at her wound to no avail. Her hands come away bloody, and she paints the walls around her with her gore, her cries turned high and wet.

The sword has stuck, hard, into the wall. Even with all her strength behind her, Allison cannot dislodge it. She tugs and tugs, and Kate wails and wails, and then a clawed hand is curling over Allison’s arm, and Allison is tossed aside like a rag doll, claw marks scratched down from shoulder to elbow, and lands hard against the wall. Her arm bleeds, sluggish and slow, and she looks up to the beta wolves, shaking.

‘We have you now,’ says the blonde woman. She makes a swipe for Allison, but misses; Allison hurtles back across the room, towards Scott, the sword long forgotten. But her arm is caught again, this time by Laura, and Allison yelps in pain but springs back, eyes wide.

Laura has her around the throat; Laura is looking to her Alpha for advice. No one moves for a moment, expect for Allison, who struggles, gagging faintly.

The Alpha grins with pointed teeth, Derek at his side. He walks to meet Allison, and when they’re almost toe to toe he studies her over Laura’s outstretched arm, as if she is a puzzle to be solved. He takes in her face, and her clothing, her hands ripping at Laura to no avail. And then curls Allison’s loose hair behind her ears.

Allison jerks back, snarling. She spits at the Alpha and misses. He laughs, a cutting sound, and Scott glances about himself, distantly aware that there has to be something he can do.

‘Oh, Kate,’ coos the Alpha, ‘but she is something, isn’t she?’ He walks around Allison, who kicks at him desperately. ‘She is made in your image, it seems. You must be proud.’

Kate is struggling against the sword. She is flailing mindlessly, her fingers dripping. But she pauses, panting, her head dropped back against the wall behind her, eyes closed, body limp and loose when the Alpha addresses her. And then she looks up, eyes swimming with magic, and grins broadly. Here is the face of a mad woman, of a creature so completely lost that it could never be saved. Scott finds himself crawling towards Stiles, wordlessly, to hover over him, protect him from this… this thing that used to be Princess of December.

Whatever she is now, she laughs. Opens her mouth, a great black maw, and the sound that comes out is frantic and strange and cracked, and it goes on, and on, and on. Scott feels shivers down his spine at the sound, tears his eyes away because he cannot stomach watching.

‘Allison!’ guffaws Kate. ‘Allison is your undoing, you pitiful little animal!’

The Alpha’s grin is sick, amused. ‘Oh?’ he says. ‘And what if I have my betas rip her apart, hmm? What if I put her on a pyre, still breathing, and burn her down like you did to my family?’ And then his smile widens, somehow, and the teeth in his mouth are fangs. ‘Or I could turn her, make her the one thing you hate more than anything.’

Allison begins to fight back more at that. She thrashes out at Laura, who has her at arm’s length and does not seem even a little fazed at her captive’s struggling. ‘No!’ breathes Allison. ‘No, please –’

The Alpha plucks at Allison’s arm in an easy move, as if it is nothing. Allison fights, hard, but he pulls until her bones must crunch, and cave. There is the sound of cracking bones, then, and Allison keens, her scream broken with crying. Peter puts his mouth over her wrist.

‘It would be so easy, Kate,’ he goads, smiling against Allison’s pulse. ‘I could do it.’

‘DO IT, THEN!’ roars the Queen, her fingers stretched out to him, painted red. ‘I WILL KILL HER TOO, WITH ALL OF YOU MONSTERS!’

There is a pause then, and Scott feels so cold, looking between Kate, breathing through the sword wedged inside her, and Peter, the crazed Alpha werewolf, who seems more and more pleased as the conversation begins to crumble. Peter lets Allison’s arm drop away, brings a hand up to his mouth. He looks pensive for a moment, and Scott climbs to his feet, heart beating hard.

Scott can almost see the cogs ticking over in the Alpha’s head. He watches, eyes narrow; watches the betas shifting, Allison sobbing under Laura’s hold, and Peter, the Alpha, turned away, walking towards Kate, standing at the wall next to the Queen.

‘Laura,’ he says, tone playful, ‘let the little hunter girl go.’

He knew. Scott knew, somehow, before Peter had even opened his mouth how this would go. And so when Peter makes the call, the world seems to slow down, and all Scott can do is act, do the only thing he was ever good at and rush in head first, his loyalty to Allison a much stronger impulse than anything else.

He launches himself at Allison, twists her behind him just as the first of the betas descend.

 

-

 

It feels as if, for far too long a moment, her heart stops beating.

It feels as if she cannot breathe at all, and she stares down at the mess she made and forgets that she knows how to breathe, because Scott is dying.

Scott is bleeding from a wound in his side, his flesh torn away in a bite given to him by the blonde male werewolf. And he, that werewolf, has blood dripping off his chin, and flesh between his teeth, in his hair, dripping onto his naked chest. It is Scott’s blood, and Scott is wheezing, Scott is struggling to breathe, and Allison is not breathing with him, cannot breathe without him.

She drops to her knees at Scott’s side, her broken arm jarring painfully. She leaves it, tucked into her side, but with her good hand she reaches out to him, touches his jaw, his throat, pushes his dark hair out of his face.

‘Scott,’ she whispers, leaning forward, ‘Scott, can you hear me?’

Scott opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a broken-off cry. Allison reaches down to his wound, presses down to stem the bleeding. ‘Hold on,’ she snaps, refusing to look at the blood oozing past her fingers. ‘You will heal, I promise. We will get you healed.’

Allison pays no attention to the werewolves watching her, curious. She does not see Derek untying Stiles just a little ways away, does not see him gather Stiles up and move him away, so Stiles can sit against the far wall, just breathing. Allison’s eyes are on Scott, on the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, on the way he wheezes with every breath, every exhale comes out like a little cough of a broken grunt. She leans in again, leans over him, and presses her mouth to his, briefly.

‘Allison,’ says Scott, ‘you should go.’

Of course he would only think of Allison at a time like this. She shakes her head at him, determined. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Scott. I am not going anywhere.’ And then she looks up at the Alpha, the creature leaning against the wall next to her mutilated aunt, and she does something she did not imagine she would ever do. ‘Please,’ she begs, ‘help him.’

The Alpha raises an eyebrow. Next to him, Kate stirs.

‘Help him?’ Peter laughs. ‘You want me to help your boy?’

‘He’s dying,’ says Allison. ‘Please, you can heal him. I know you can.’

‘I can bite him,’ replies the Alpha, eyes flashing. ‘And there is just as much chance that the bite will kill him as it will save him.’

‘Do it!’ pleads Allison. ‘If you will not he will die all the same, and I cannot lose him. I beg you, Alpha.’

The Alpha leans away from the wall, arms crossed. His face turns to a dirty scowl, and he paces forwards a moment, nasty and snarling. ‘I owe you nothing, girl. Yours has killed my family.’

Allison glances up, eyes blazing. ‘And you killed my mother in return,’ she spits. ‘You broke my father’s heart and stole our kingdom from us. We are divided and beaten, and you taunt me by breaking my bones and torturing my aunt!’ She flings her one good arm out towards Kate. ‘I would call that even, werewolf.’

Peter scowls. He growls, a low rumble in his chest, and then kneels over Scott, his face even with Allison’s. ‘Do not tempt me to tear you apart, Princess,’ he grinds. ‘You are treading on very thin ice.’

It is hard, but Allison holds her tongue, beside herself. She stares at the Alpha, and he stares back, and she waits with bitten lip and fingers pressed to Scott’s bleeding side. It takes a long, long minute of staring, but Allison refuses to waver. And then the Alpha stands, and the corner of his scowl turns up. He spins, on his heel, towards the Queen.

‘Will you look at this, Kate? Your little niece is not nearly as loyal as you seemed to think. In fact, she is quite the traitor, don’t you think?’

Kate snarls, hands clutching at the air before Peter’s chest. She opens her mouth, and a string of words come tumbling out, but it is foreign, and old, and her fingers jolt with electricity, her limbs flicker and blaze with lightning.

Peter surges forward, digging the sword in further. Kate lets out a wild scream, and Peter catches her jaw with his fingers, presses tight.

‘Not another word, Your Highness,’ Peter growls, ‘or else I will crush your jaw with my fingers, and rip out your tongue with my teeth, and then –’

And then Kate moves, surges forward somehow past the sword through her middle, and she has Allison’s dagger in her hands, and she imbeds it into Peter’s neck. There is a beat, where nobody moves, and then there is a swell of action, of roaring and snarling and transforming from the betas, and manic laughter from the Queen, and a shuddered gasp from Allison.

But then the Alpha roars, tearing the knife so a blood comes pouring out, and slashes with his other hand. His claws cut clean through Kate’s throat, and then out the other side.

Kate’s laugh becomes a gurgle.

She bleeds in a long, endless stream, gagging.

And then her head falls forward against her chest, and the Queen of the forest is dead.

Allison is torn. She wants to scream and cry and lash out, kill all the werewolves around her. But Scott is still bleeding, still dying, is doing nothing but lying, very still, at her feet. So she boxes her grief up inside her, tears her eyes away from the mangled corpse of her aunt, and turns to the Alpha. ‘Hale,’ she says, as sharp and insistent as she can muster. ‘We have a deal?’

Peter’s head snaps around, and with it comes the attention of the other betas, so that instantly all eyes are on her. Allison wants to take a step back, out of some primal urge to steer clear of the things that might easily take her life, but she has more to worry about than her own neck right now.

It is Laura, however, who speaks this time. ‘You have to understand,’ she says, ‘that this will be forever. It may save him now, but we cannot save him again from your law.’

‘I know,’ grits Allison, and crosses her arms protectively over her heart.

‘You cannot hate the thing you love,’ Laura continues, ‘and you cannot love the thing you hate. It will tear you in two, and you will become what Kate was. It will end the same way.’

Allison stares the werewolf woman down, sniffing past her tears. ‘Then I will change the law,’ she says, steadfast. ‘We will not hunt your kind, and you will not hunt mine. We will consider this act a treaty between us, and we will have a peaceable agreement. The werewolves can return to the kingdom. You will be safe here, your kind respected. So long as there is no more death.’ She shifts her attention, then, back to the Alpha. ‘But you have to save Scott first.’

She holds out her hand, bloodied as it is. Peter stares it down, considering. ‘And all will be as it was before your grandfather’s time?’

Allison nods. ‘I may even marry him some day,’ she replies, indicating Scott with a nod. ‘A werewolf on the throne. Can you imagine?’

There is a hint of a smile on the Alpha’s face as he shakes Allison’s hand. ‘I shall believe it when I see it,’ he says, and the deal is made.

 

-

 

Stiles cannot remember all of the details of his rescue. He is too beaten, too bruised, his head too swollen and his body too broken to take in every little detail. But he can remember some parts: Derek and Scott’s arrival, and Scott’s idiot bravery, and the sound of someone screaming as if from very far away as Derek had dragged him from the fray. He does not know a lot of what happens next, or even if he is dead or alive, or Scott, or anyone else, for that matter. But when he comes to, everything is different.

The world is a different place, one that Stiles does not know.

Derek is crouched over him, hands on Stiles’ shoulders, his face crushed with concern. He seems to ease, though, deflating slightly, when Stiles looks up at him.

‘Hello,’ Stiles croaks.

There is an odd, shivery sensation wherever Derek is touching him. Stiles shifts slightly so that he can lean into it a little better, and Derek grunts, face creasing.

‘How do you feel?’ asks Derek.

Stiles is still lost in the dull ebb and flow of just waking. He can feel twinges coming back to him, the endless ache of his chest, cut to ribbons, and the thudding of his brain against his skull. But the more he comes to his senses, the more the pain seems to be easing. ‘Alright,’ he says, ‘I think. It hurt more before.’

Derek nods. ‘I am taking some of the pain away,’ he explains, and drags his fingers up to cup Stiles’ head. ‘It will not heal your wounds, but the worst hurts will be gone for a while.’

Stiles lifts a tentative hand to Derek’s, his arm heavy and warm. ‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ he says. His throat is very dry, and he does not want to talk, but he feels like it is important to at least say that much while he is capable. Derek smiles.

‘Where is Scott?’ asks Stiles next.

Derek’s face goes dark, just for a moment, and then he shifts, out of the way of Stiles’ line of sight, so that he’s sitting at Stiles’ right shoulder. Here Stiles catches his first glimpse of the aftermath of his rescue.

Scott is lying prostrate on the floor, Peter Hale hovering over him, teeth bared.

Panic sets in so fast that Stiles finds himself stumbling forward, despite his injuries. He is on his knees, Derek’s hands tugging him backwards before he knows what he is doing, shouts, ‘Stop!’ and, ‘Don’t!’ even as Peter opens his jaws wide to swallow Scott up whole. He does not understand what it going on, but he knows that he does not like it, does not want his friend to be eaten by some werewolf like he is a culled sheep, a cow from a field to feed a family.

Allison appears next, rushing to Stiles from his left, her hands up in protest. She looks worn, and her face is ruddy from crying, but Stiles does not care, flinches away like Allison is fire and she burns him, scuttles back just enough that she stops dead inches from his side.

Derek growls, deep in his chest in warning. Allison’s hands shake. ‘Please,’ she says, and Stiles has heard that word so many times today that it is starting to lose its meaning, ‘I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, Stiles, but you have to know, I am doing this for Scott.’

Stiles stares at Peter, who has paused with Scott’s hand raised towards his fangs. He turns to Allison, eyes wide and fearful, and then back again. ‘But I do not understand,’ he chokes out. ‘Is he – is he not –’

‘Dead?’ finishes Allison. ‘Heavens, no. But he is dying, Stiles.’ She reaches out for him again, but Stiles snaps back his hand, glaring, and she looks hurt, for just a moment. She raises her hands in surrender, though. ‘He was bitten, and he is bleeding. But the Alpha can save him.’

‘I am going to give him the bite,’ says Peter.

‘Does – ’ starts Stiles, ‘does he want that?’

‘It is a gift,’ says Derek, to Stiles’ right.

Stiles turns to stare. ‘Not to someone who does not wish for it.’

‘His heart is slowing,’ warns Peter.

‘Rouse him,’ insists Stiles, turning back to his friend. ‘Wake him and ask.’

‘He will not wake,’ snaps Peter. ‘It is now or you will lose him.’

‘Do it,’ insists Allison. ‘We had a deal, Alpha.’

‘I don’t think –’ starts Stiles, but it is too late. Peter’s fangs sink in.

Underneath the Alpha, Scott rears up, shouting. He thrashes wildly, his head thrown back, his back arched in pain. Allison dashes forward to catch Scott’s hands, and Stiles would join her, would find some way to cut her out, perhaps, but Derek’s hold on Stiles’ arm is more than Stiles can fight against, and Derek is whispering calming things into Stiles’ ear in an attempt to ease him. It does not help, and Stiles turns his ear away, tugs against Derek’s steadfast grip.

But then Scott stops. Drops, as it were. He lays still, as the Alpha draws away, and Derek looks up, and the other betas too, and then Scott is gasping, sucking in great gulps of air. Allison shrieks with relief, pulls Scott up just enough to throw her arms around him.

 

-

 

Stiles has never seen a dead body before. Not like this, at least.

He had seen the shadow of his mother’s emaciated frame through the bed sheets after she had died, had watched the pale, drawn face and waited for a sign, an indication, that there would be another breath, another fluttering of eyelashes, another lilt in the corner of her mouth. And he had seen, once, the body of an old woman who had lived alone in the village and died sometime in the night. She was carted out with the bedding still tucked around her stiff body, the pillow caught between her hands with brittle fingers that would not let go. He had seen enough animal carcasses at the market, sometimes dried and hung, but sometimes still bloody, the skin still on.

But the Queen of the forest has been butchered, is a twisted lump of flesh hanging from the wall like a butterfly pinned down. She is not even like a slaughtered animal with its throat cut to bleed it dry, even with her own blood cooling at her feet.

‘And she’s dead?’ breathes Stiles to Derek. ‘She will not come back?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘There is no heart beat. She is surely dead.’

Stiles has this morbid urge to reach out and touch, as if it could make Kate more dead, prove it somehow. He finds himself reaching up as if he might touch the crown of her head, or her hair, but then his heart starts to stir and he steps away, uncertain. Something does not feel right. ‘Derek,’ he says, ‘we have to take her down. We cannot leave her like this.’

‘She does not deserve our compassion,’ spits Derek, his expression dark.

Stiles shoots Derek a glance. ‘I know,’ he hisses. ‘I would not give her my compassion in a million years. But Derek, she has magic.’

‘And?’

‘And,’ Stiles explains, ‘even if she is dead now, there is nothing to suggest she could not come back. We have to take every precaution necessary. I cannot lose you, now I have you.’

Derek grimaces, his face oddly guilty, and looks away, towards the front door of the house. Somewhere beyond is his pack, crossing the Annan with Allison and Scott in tow. Stiles is hesitant to ask how they are managing such a feat, what with the river’s reputation to swallow people whole, but there are more important matters at hand. The Queen’s body is one of them.

After a moment Derek glances up to Stiles, and there is the glint of an idea behind his eyes. ‘Help me get her sword,’ he says shortly, as explanation, and then Stiles has no choice but to step forward and touch his fallen foe.

Kate’s skin is still warm to touch, although her front is plastered down with gluey, drying blood. Stiles curls his hands over her shoulders, standing back as far as he can so that only his fingers are at risk of coming away wet. Over his shoulder, Derek grips the hilt of the sword, puts a foot up onto the wall by Kate’s hip to steady his weight.

Derek pulls, grunting, and in one great, squelching tug, the blade comes free.

The body is heavy in Stiles arms. He is still weak from his wounds, and for a moment he struggles against the pull of gravity, and has to press close, his knee jammed into the wall so the brunt of Kate’s weight flops onto him like a rag doll. Her head lolls forward, half-open mouth tucked into Stiles’ collar, nose wiping across his bared skin. Stiles is overwhelmed – partly by the weight, but also party by the smell of death that he did not notice until now, now finds himself immersed in. He gags and stumbles, choking, reeling back, and all he breathes is blood and guts and ash, somewhere far behind it, sunk into the house like a second skin.

Eventually, Derek comes to his rescue, yet again, pries the limp body from Stiles’ grasp. She looks so small in Derek’s arms, so fragile and unreal, and as he puts her down she could be anyone, just a head of frizzy curls and a body that’s still malleable. She lies with arms splayed, legs half-curled underneath her, her open face staring blankly up and her pale, spoiled throat exposed.

Stiles watches, wary, as Derek takes up the sword from where he tossed it across the room, approach the body as if the soul that was there might return and Kate could jump up with a shout. He pauses, momentarily, eyes dark and face closed over. And then he raises his sword arm, and brings the sword down. There is the toll of metal against wood, of bone crunching. The head rolls back, rolls free.

He is not aware of how he ends up crouched over on his knees, but Stiles finds himself throwing up the contents of his stomach at the sight of a headless body. There is only so much his curiosity can take, so much he is torn between touching and squirming over. He is not even sure how Derek can stomach it, can drop the sword to one side and then lean over and pick up the head by its hair. The neck dribbles gore all over Derek’s boots, and that leads to more retching on Stiles’ part, more countless nightmares about headless corpses and rivers of blood. Stiles is not even sure why Derek has picked up the head, is walking away with it.

Stiles follows, despite himself. Follows Derek straight to the river.

Across the other side are five wolves, three of them pacing restlessly, and Scott and Allison, crowded close together. Stiles feels a heated jolt of hate for Allison, and for Scott too, for loving her, but it does not last long for what happens next.

The river parts, leaving a long column free of water between one side and the other. And there, standing in the middle, is the ghost of that boy that drowned years back. Michael something. Or maybe it was Matthew; Stiles does not recall.

‘Here,’ says Derek to the dead boy in the river, ‘I have something for you.’ And he hurls the head at the boy’s feet.

Across at the other bank, Allison gasps, wavering. She scrambles down the shore, furious. ‘Derek!’ she bellows, ‘What have you done?’

‘That is the head of Kate Argent, Queen of the forest,’ announces Derek. There is a roar of approval from his pack. 

Stiles wonders if he can keep throwing up without anything in his stomach, feels the nausea threaten to test the theory. ‘Oh, holy God,’ he groans, hands over his mouth.

‘She is dead,’ continues Derek, undeterred, ‘killed by the hands of my uncle, Peter Hale, Alpha of the Hale pack. The spell that binds your soul to the river is broken. You are free.’

There is a pause, and Stiles glances from Derek to the dead boy in the river, not completely certain as to what he is missing, other than the fact that he knows it is quite a bit. Derek looks desperate and mean; the boy amused, but also perplexed. And then he starts laughing, and Derek breaks, just a little, just for a moment before he covers it with a scowl.

‘You –’ breathes the dead boy, purple hands on his chest, ‘you think killing the Queen will break our deal? You owe me, werewolf. You owe me life.’

Derek grits his teeth at that. ‘But I broke the spell,’ he spits.

The boy smirks, glances about himself. ‘Are you so sure?’ he asks, arms raised. ‘Are you sure killing a witch will kill her magic? I am still here, am I not? Still trapped in the river I died in?’

Derek looks scared then, and glances back at Stiles, once, twice, three times. His breathing comes harsh and ragged in his chest. ‘But I did what you wanted.’

‘What I wanted?’ the boy chortles again, and it is a watery gurgle, as if his lungs are filled with water. Likely, they are. ‘I did not want her dead,’ he says, snorting. ‘I could not care if that miserable old hag lived or died. I may not have liked what she did to me, but I’ve never had a better opportunity at getting revenge.’

‘Then what do you want?’ shouts Derek, eyes flashing blue.

‘Your bones, Derek,’ says the boy, simply. ‘I’ve made that clear enough.’

‘What?’ gasps Stiles.

He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe, and he does not understand, and Derek is – Derek is – Derek is turning towards him, and he looks so guilty, face punched in with it. Stiles’ gut churns, and his chest aches, and he reaches out for Derek, gets a handful of skin for his troubles and clings, gasping.

‘I am sorry,’ Derek whispers like a litany in his hair. ‘I am sorry, Stiles, but you were dying.’

‘What did you do?’ Stiles asks, and his voice is so small, because he knows that it is bad, he knows that his heart is breaking. And then he is angry, too, because he just won Derek back. He nearly died for Derek, and now he does not know where he stands. ‘What did you, Derek?’ he demands, and shakes Derek’s shoulders. ‘Tell me!’

Derek will not meet his eye. ‘I had to save you,’ he mumbles. ‘There was no time.’

Stiles steps back, rips Derek’s hands away from him. ‘So, what?’ he seethes. ‘You sold your soul to the river to save me? Why would you do that?’

‘There was no time. I couldn’t – I couldn’t – you kept screaming. You have to understand, I would die for you.’

It is like a punch in the chest. It is like tripping and falling and never hitting the ground. It hits him and it never stops, and those words ring around Stiles’ head, getting redder and redder behind his eyes. ‘I do not…’ he says. He shakes his head. ‘I do not want you to. Derek – _Derek_ , look at me.’  
Derek’s eyes snap up, green and weeping.

‘I do not want you to die for me,’ bites out Stiles, and he falls and he falls and the ground is no closer than it was before. ‘How could you do this to me?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘I had to save you,’ he says, and he sounds almost angry in his desperation, like he cannot understand. But he should. He should understand this, because dying? The thought of Derek dying leaves this bitter taste in Stiles’ mouth. Stiles knows what it is to lose someone, and so does Derek. Sometimes Stiles thinks Derek must ache with it. So to act like he does not understand this makes Stiles furious, makes him hate Derek so much for his own foolish sacrifices.

‘So you thought –what?’ Stiles snarls. His voice goes high and withered, but he powers on, shaking with it. ‘That you would come in and rescue me, and then leave me behind? That it would be some sort of heroic…’ He throws a hand out, gasping. ‘I don’t know, heroic display of your love for me? I do not want you to die. I do not want – my _mother_ died, Derek. And I barely…’

Then. Oh, hell, then the tears start, and Stiles hates that he is crying, but he cannot stop even when his voice starts to crack. ‘And I just found you. I just found you, and I wanted to have you, and you are taking that away from me. How could you do this?’

Derek is silent. He is silent and stoic, and his whole face closes down, shuts completely so that there is nothing but the fierce, withering stare he shoots his feet. He does not look at Stiles, or talk, or even blink, and Stiles gets desperate, because now he is the only one with a mind still whirring like clockwork. Stiles has to save them. Has to save Derek.

‘Don’t,’ he starts, swallows the rest of his tears, ‘don’t get in the water.’

‘What?’ grunts Derek.

‘Stay here,’ rambles Stiles. ‘On this side of the river. Or we could – we could build a bridge, or a raft to take us across.’

Derek looks up then, and he has the look Stiles’ father had the night he told Stiles his mother was sick. It sends pain zinging up his spine, wrapping around his lungs and heart and squeezing, hard. ‘Stiles,’ says Derek, slow and careful, ‘I cannot.’

‘No, you can!’ shouts Stiles. ‘You have to!’

‘I made a deal –’

‘Well, then break it!’ he snaps, arms flailing.

Derek sighs, long and low, his eyes closed. He is in profile to Stiles, but he looks… peaceful. And that scares Stiles more than anything, because peace means Derek has already accepted this as his fate and that is not okay. ‘Stiles –’ Derek starts.

‘You made a promise to me first, Derek,’ insists Stiles. ‘You said – you said we would leave here, that we could go anywhere I wanted.’ He points, then, towards his feet. ‘Well, I want to stay right here. And I want you to stay with me. Do not get in the water. Please do not –’

Derek leaps forward suddenly, and pulls Stiles in to a kiss, teeth and tongue and Derek’s nails digging into Stiles’ shoulders. At first Stiles is stunned, but then he is angry again, and pulls away, shuddering.

It is the wrong thing to do. Because, Stiles realises distantly, the kiss is goodbye. This is it. This is where it ends. And Derek turns his back to Stiles, his determination set, and scrambles down the bank to the water’s edge far too fast for Stiles to catch him.

Stiles bursts into action, tripping after Derek even as Derek reaches towards the dead boy, and the dead boy reaches back. Stiles makes a flying leap, catches Derek around the middle, and latches hold. In slow motion they tip forward, and forward, and Stiles sucks a breath into his lungs, feels it forced back out as they land, hard, in the river bed.

The water comes tumbling in.

 

-

 

Scott acts before he thinks.

It is perhaps, both his best and worst trait: that he will jump, without any given notice, into the thick of it whenever the ones he loves are in danger. He does not think about the consequences, because he has never been good at planning ahead or doing much that was not acting reactively without someone like Stiles or Deaton to back him, to help him plan. And anyway, situations like these, when the world is crumbling and sideways and brought to its knees, there is no room for a plan of attack. You have to just attack. To just jump right in.

He jumps in.

The water is freezing cold, and running fast. It is, perhaps, the most foolish thing he has ever done, diving into the Annan River without any warning. He cannot hear much past the rush, but he knows that Allison is screaming at him from the bank. But Scott does not care – does not have time to care. Because Stiles is going to drown if Scott does not find him.

He searches until the air is all expelled from his lungs, and then breaks the surface just long enough to suck in air before diving down again. It is hard to see through the swirling grey. For all Scott knows, they have been swept away downstream, are clinging to a rock somewhere, trying to battle the rough. But he keeps swimming, keeps searching, keeps his eyes open despite the sting.

He finds Stiles near the bottom of the deepest part of the river.

Scott could shout for joy at how relieved he is, and dives down, swimming mad, until he can wrap a hand around Stiles’ wrists. All it is from that point is dogged kick-thrashing until they break the swell of the waves and Scott can wrap an arm around Stiles’ front and drag him to the shore.

Stiles breathes, gasps, as they surface, water streaming down his face. And then he starts screaming for Derek, flailing against Scott as if he is attempting to swim in the other direction. But Scott is stronger, can breathe clearly for the first time ever, and pushes through the swirl easily, dragging Stiles along with him.

Before too long they are close enough to the shore that two of the betas race up to meet them. Laura reaches for Stiles, the blonde one takes hold of Scott’s shoulder. The four of them stumble back, until Scott can sit in the mud, panting, and Stiles kicks against Laura, who has her arms around his waist and will not let go.

‘I have to find him!’ shouts Stiles, even as he coughs up water from his lungs.

‘Peter went in for him,’ replies the blonde one, his eyes flashing yellow in warning. ‘He can find Derek.’

‘I don’t care!’ bellows Stiles. ‘Let go of me!’

‘No,’ growls Laura, and locks her arms around him tighter.

Scott turns back to the water, searching the swell for bodies. He thinks perhaps he should jump back in, for Stiles’ peace of mind, but he can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, the thudthudthudthud of it, erratic and fast, and mostly he wants to curl around Stiles until it slows and Stiles is okay again.

He might never be, though, it Derek does not surface.

It takes too long. Far, far too long, too long for a human to hold their breath, far too long to be drifting underwater and survive. So long that even Stiles, straining against Laura, starts to quiet, even as the pounding of his heart stays loud and panicked. Laura rests her head against the back of Stiles’ neck, and she looks worried, and also sad, and Scott can feel it coming off her in waves, because he thinks she might have given up. It hurts his heart to think about it.

There is a sound though, somewhere downstream, that catches his attention. A splashing sound that breaks through the cresting waves, and all at once the betas turn towards it.

‘What?’ says Allison, somewhere behind them.

It is the blonde one that speaks up, the only beta other than Laura in human form. ‘I heard –’ he starts, uncertain, and then leans towards the sound as if it will magnify. Scott strains to hear past the pickup in Stiles’ pulse.

There is a heartbeat, a faint one, and gasping breaths, and –

‘It _is_ them,’ whispers Scott.

In an instant they are all racing, jostling and jangling through the trees towards the bend in the river. Scott dodges trees faster than he ever could, makes the scene before Stiles has managed to get close enough. And he should have known, because he had only heard one heartbeat through the churning water, only one set of lungs sawing in and out.

Derek is limp in Peter’s arms. 

Scott comes skidding to a halt, glances back at Stiles. He does not know what to do. Ahead of him Laura has stopped, is keening so loud that Stiles cannot possibly miss the sound. The sound of howling fills the air as each of the betas in turn tip their heads towards the sky and start screaming, and Scott does not know what he should be doing, cannot remember from when Stiles’ mother passed if there was something to do that was right. So he turns back towards Stiles, just ahead of Allison, and then runs towards him, arms outstretched.

‘I have to see!’ says Stiles. He tries to clamber around Scott even as Allison races ahead, but Scott cuts him off, again and again, stepping into Stiles’ path.

‘Stiles,’ says Scott, ‘you shouldn’t –’

‘MOVE OUT OF MY WAY,’ bellows Allison, behind him. ‘WE HAVE TO START HIS HEART.’

It startles Scott, just enough that Stiles slips around him and races towards the bank, arms windmilling wildly. Scott races to catch him, but by this time Derek is on the ground, and Allison is hovering, and Peter is transformed into a wolf, red eyes and sharp fangs and snapping and snarling.

Scott sees red.

 

-

 

A war rages over Derek’s body.

It is madness, because all Stiles can see – all Stiles wants to see – is Derek, waterlogged and pale and not moving, not moving at all, and everything is going wrong, everything is broken and Stiles’ heart is about to beat right out of his chest for the way it keeps rattling, it keeps making him shudder and bawl.

But Allison is a stupid girl and threatens the Alpha, and then the Alpha threatens her back, and suddenly Scott is losing control of himself and becomes a monster that shreds through trees and races, on clawed hands and feet, raging, towards Peter Hale. Allison darts away, shrieking, but Scott and Peter meet in mid air, clapping like thunder so loud that the forest judders violently around them. Stiles does not make most of it out. It is hacking and slashing, the betas joining in the fray as Scott is inevitably ripped to shreds, and bites off more than he can chew.

But it does not matter, because Derek is a corpse lying sodden on the ground.

Stiles skids to a halt at Derek’s side, hands shaking. He brushes the hair out of Derek’s face, pushes away the water beading on his skin. Derek’s eyes are closed, but his mouth is open. His lips are blue, and his skin is ashy white. Stiles’ fingers flutter over Derek’s face, his throat, his chest. He does not want to put his hands down, because he thinks the skin might be cold, and if Derek is cold then that means his body will go rigid, and then it will start to rot, and they will put him on a pyre and burn him down, and then he will be gone forever.

There is roaring everywhere, so loud the sound of the raging river is fading in comparison, even with Derek waterlogged in the mud of the shore. If Stiles were paying attention to the scene behind him, he would maybe be afraid of being torn apart, or turned, but instead he leans in, presses a kiss to the dip of Derek’s temple.

His skin is icy cold. It makes Stiles want to cry. He sits, sniffling, for a moment, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The river rolls right past him, the sound of the swell filling him up and drowning out anything else.

And that is when he realised that the werewolves have stopped fighting.

Stiles turns, glancing over his shoulder, and there are six humans stopped dead in their fighting, six humans panting hard, six pairs of eyes glowing three different colours back at him, wide and strange. ‘What?’ says Stiles, after a moment where no one moves. He realises, distantly, that they are not looking at him. They are looking towards him, in his direction, but they are looking right past him. They are looking at –

Stiles swivels back around. Derek’s eyes are open, bright, bright blue.

‘Derek?’ Stiles breathes, his heartbeat hitching spectacularly in his chest.

All at once there is a cacophony of sound. Behind Stiles, the werewolves are yowling, squabbling amongst themselves as they climb over one another to get there first. Allison is gasping, rushing forward as she shouts a litany of swear words, darts out and around the werewolves so to not get caught in claws or teeth. And Derek shoots up, coughing water from his lungs.

It ends about as poorly as can be expected. There is a tangle of limbs, a crash landing of people colliding with one another, and Stiles ends up face first in the mud, crushed half over Derek, who is wheezing, and half underneath one or another of the betas. He feels, as much as hears, Derek laughing in surprise and shock, and is deafened by Laura screeching with relief, and someone is puffing out against the back of his neck. But he feels light, as much as he is being squashed down into the earth. He feels like he is full of air, because Derek is alive, _Derek is alive_ , the words could spin rings around his head and it would never change the release that wells up in his chest.

 

-

 

‘It was the spell, I think,’ says Derek, pensive. They are sitting, Derek, Stiles, and Scott, in the back of Deaton’s apothecary, as Deaton rubs salve into the worst of Stiles’ wounds. The medicine he is using smells like flowers and also faintly of horse urine, which is neither the best of combinations or the slightest bit pleasant. The look on Scott’s face, twisted with torment at all of the new smells he has to pay attention to now, would almost be precious if it were not for the fact that Stiles is in complete agreement at this point in time.

‘What spell?’ asks Scott.

‘The spell the Queen cast on me after the fire. I have the years of all the pack within me. And if the spell on that boy in the river –’

‘Matt Daehler,’ supplies Scott.

‘-if the spell on Matt did not break when we killed the Queen, then the spell she cast on me would not have broken either. And I think that even though all of my years were taken when I drowned, I still have all the years of the pack who perished in the fire within me.’ He smiles then, a surprising thing as if the oddest thing has just occurred to him. ‘I cannot be killed,’ he says, stunned. ‘I will not die.’

Stiles hisses at the sting of medicine on his bare chest. ‘I wish we had known that before I jumped into the river with you,’ he grunts. He is sore all over, his arms and legs exhausted and aching from the struggle under the water. He intends to take advantage of it fully, milking Derek for all the pity he is worth – so long as that pity consists of kisses and the gathering of food and several days to make up for the one they lost.

‘I am sorry,’ says Derek, quiet.

Stiles shakes his head. ‘What’s done is done,’ he insists, and reaches out for Derek’s hand. ‘I still have you, after everything, and that is the most important part.’ He pauses, then, thinking. ‘Which begs one more question, actually.’

‘Anything,’ says Derek, warm.

‘Whenever anyone drowns in the Annan, their body is never found. And Matt said he wanted your bones. So why would he give you up, after everything?’  
Derek frowns, pondering. ‘I do not know,’ he says eventually. ‘Perhaps it is a part of the spell? He cannot take my bones if my body will not –’ But then he looks up and away, ears pricking, and Scott turns too, towards the door.

‘Allison,’ he breathes.

Stiles feels something similar to hate burn low in his stomach, but bites it down. He catches Deaton’s eye, and Deaton is very much laughing at him, or maybe Scott, who is bounding across the room like an overgrown sheep dog, and throws the door open too hard with his new-found strength.

‘Hullo,’ he greets the shadow at the door, cheery.

Allison takes a step inside, and she is back in her white mourning dress, her skin scrubbed clean and her hair in careful curls down her back. One arm is cradled in a sling, the other’s sleeve bulky under layers of bandages. She smiles, broadly, at Scott, and it fades, somewhat, when she looks towards Stiles and Derek, but not enough to draw reaction from Scott. ‘My father is arrived,’ she says as greeting. ‘He’s furious at me, which is understandable, and he is certainly not happy about Kate.’

At her name, Derek jolts, growling. Stiles rubs circles into the back of Derek’s hand with his thumb. Allison glances, momentarily, towards them, but then continues talking, her voice tight.

‘We are leaving for the citadel straight away,’ she says, and her smile turns a little sad around the edges. ‘There is a lot of lost time to make up for, and a rather large mess that needs cleaning up.’

Scott snorts, over enthusiastic.

‘And there is the treaty to organise with the Hales, and Aunt Kate’s funeral, and…’ Allison fades off with a lazy shrug. ‘You know.’

‘I know,’ echoes Scott.

There is a long, pregnant pause then, and Stiles feels a little like he is watching something far too intimate to be happening in the middle of the apothecary, even in the early morning. He does not like Allison, not an inch, but he turns his eyes away when Scott leans across to kiss her, and tries not to be too bitter that his best friend has fallen in love with the girl who tortured him for nothing more than falling for the wrong person. Werewolf.

Derek leans his head against Stiles’ shoulder. Deaton lets out a huff and puts the pot of salve down, turns away to wipe his hands, muttering something about young love being sickening under his breath. Derek huffs a laugh into Stiles’ ear and Stiles elbows him in reply.

‘I’ll send for you,’ says Allison, quiet, at the door.

‘I’ll wait,’ replies Scott, his smile easy.

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains a lot of things that may be considered triggers. I have listed them below and tagged them too, but if there is anything else you feel I should be warning for please feel free to let me know and I'll be happy to update tags and notes and the like. Note that for full disclaimer of these warnings I do mention plot points. So... spoilers?
> 
> Dubcon: this story contains an off screen sex scene between Stiles and Derek in which Stiles' consent may be considered somewhat dubious. At the time Stiles is confused and panicking and driven by an adrenaline rush, and later regrets his actions. His regret is only temporary, however, as his feelings for Derek grow.
> 
> Abusive relationship: this story also contains a relationship (Kate/Derek) that is abusive. This is due to Kate's controlling of Derek with magic: Kate has cast a spell on Derek so that the lives of his pack members live on within him. To keep his pack alive he must stay with Kate, or she will break the spell. Because of this Kate has a lot of power over Derek, which she uses throughout the story to manipulate him.
> 
> Implied torture: Stiles is captured by Kate and Allison and tortured off screen. His screaming can be heard throughout a scene, and his injuries are described in a later scene.
> 
> Character death: Most character deaths featured in this story are canon compliant: for example, the deaths of Victoria Argent, Stiles' mother, Matt Daehler, the Hale pack - all of which have died before the story starts - and Kate Argent. However this story also mentions in passing the death of Gerard Argent, who at this time may or may not still be alive in canon, and the temporary death of Derek Hale.


End file.
